UHTCEARE* by Jennie Hart

 Under the potent night sky

Hang threads of memories which linger till dawn

Taunting my restless mind

Constant feverish thoughts break through my half-wakefulness

Each moment extends into my never-ending moonlit hours

Adding to and multiplying scenes from times past

Reminding me of thoughts I need to bury

Empty from my mind; face another day

*Uhtceare (plural) is an old English (Anglo-Saxon) word for pre-dawn (uht) cares and anxieties (ceare (plural) or caru (singular). 

Trouble sleeping is clearly not a modern thing. 

In our May meeting for the warm-up task, we took this ancient word to explore some of the things we might write about for the June writing task on sleep.

UHTCEARE* by Elizabeth Obadina

 Under the duvet, in the dark, I lie still, making no fuss

Hearing the blackbird lead the dawn chorus

Tumbling out tunes that dissolve the night's grip - but

Cares then seep silently into my mind

Edging out beauty - that birdsong sublime

Aches of old age and stiffness of joints

Remind me I'm mortal and full of weak points and then

Every mistake made and all my fears re-emerge and amplify.

*Uhtceare (plural) is an old English (Anglo-Saxon) word for pre-dawn (uht) cares and anxieties (ceare (plural) or caru (singular). 

Trouble sleeping is clearly not a modern thing. 

In our May meeting for the warm-up task, we took this ancient word to explore some of the things we might write about for the June writing task on sleep.

UHTCEARE* by Louise Lee

 UNDER THE COVERS

HEAR MY HEARTBEAT

TIME STANDS STILL AS I STARE INTO DARKNESS

CREATURES LURK IN THE DOORWAY

EVERYWHERE SHADOWS MOVE

A SUDDEN JOLT AS I

REMEMBER

EVERYONE LAUGHING

*Uhtceare (plural) is an old English (Anglo-Saxon) word for pre-dawn (uht) cares and anxieties (ceare (plural) or caru (singular). 

Trouble sleeping is clearly not a modern thing. 

In our May meeting for the warm-up task, we took this ancient word to explore some of the things we might write about for the June writing task on sleep.

Bathtime Blues by Elaine Pearson

Ey, I haven’t had a bath in ages

And sometimes I wish that I could

‘Cos soaking in lovely warm soap-suds

Would surely do me good

 So, here we are at this posh hotel

With a lovely big bath ‘en-suite’

I thought I’d take advantage

And give meself a treat

 

Well, I managed to climb in alright

Sitting down was a bit of a struggle

Don’t know how I’ll ever get out

I’m in a bit of a muddle!

‘Cos I can’t reach to turn the taps on

And the water’s getting cold

I’m starting to panic just a little

I could be here till I’m old!

So with one almighty effort

I launch meself to standing

There’s me, and water all over the place

It’s running out onto the landing!

Oh, me legs ache, me back hurts, me neck’s stiff

I shan’t try that any more

I’ll stick to me shower in future

Me bath days are over for sure!

An Unexpected Smile by Michele Ross

The aching hole in my life

Has filled with

So many people.

As if they were waiting

For a sign

To let them in.

I was holding them

At arms length,

Not sure how

To approach the subject

Of our greater intimacy.

Now I am raw,

They see a way in.

They enfold me with

A warm hug

An unexpected smile.

And I surrender.

An excellent birthday gift!

It's my birthday today and my sister bought me this set of "Haikubes" - essentially, role the dice, pick your words, et voila!

The red words give your direction and theme (these are 2 dice), the rest are words.

A great tool for writer's block or just something to spark imagination.

Anyhoo, here's today's roll/cube pick:

Between dreaming, a

precious moonlight quickly calls

into which she rides

Not sure where she got them from but found a place that sells them if you wanted to read more about them.

An Unexpected Smile by Jennie Hart

credit Jennie Hart

She was a nun on a bike wearing habit and veil

No satin or lace or red leather

A ‘sit-up-and-beg’ bike with handlebars high

But in black to protect her whatever the weather!

Her knees had an angle of ninety degrees

From her limbs to ensure a firm grip

Her crucifix swayed as the pedals she turned

She didn’t fall off not a tumble or slip!

She had a wild look as she ploughed through the traffic

She swayed too and fro as she took the fast lane

She pinged on the bell and her dazzling cross dangled

Her speed was excessive she looked quite insane!

The road made a dip as with vigour she pedaled

She ceased to hold on and free-wheeled for a while

We stood on the kerb mesmerised for a moment

By her manic expression then Unexpected Smile!

A further encounter with God in his glory

Was a priest in a cassock who sauntered along

On the Mall on a Sunday in May in the morning

And the message he carried was heart-achingly strong.

He held an umbrella wide-open announcing

Wise words to the crowds who watched for a while

As all over the brolly was inscribed ‘God is Gorgeous’

And each tourist in turn gave an Unexpected Smile!

credit Gencraft

May 2025 Meeting

Nightime at the Hay Festival

 Minutes of High Town Writers' Workshop

7pm Tuesday 27th May in the Spirit Room of Peepo's

Present: Liz (chair), Adam, Michelle, Stuart, John, Jennie, Ruth, Suzie, Louise, Irena

Apologies: Fiona, Marie, Kath, Andy, Ann, Emma, Sue

We started the meeting with notices:

1. Emma is talking about her two new books 'Mary, Queen of the Forty' and 'Mercy' in Bridgnorth library on Thursday 29th May - tomorrow - at 1.30pm and 7pm - tickets from the library.
2. The Saturday quarterly afternoon workshop on 12th July will be called 'Is there Poetry in All of Us?' and will be led by Irena
3. Ruth and Suzie have accepted their role as judges for Kay's WI poetry competition in Presteigne on Wednesday 16th July. Everyone is invited to an evening of 'Prose, Poetry, Pudding and Pimms' at 7pm in the Presteigne Memorial Hall and everyone is welcome to read their own writing on the theme of summer. Anyone who wants to attend should email hightownwriters@gmail.com to let the organisers know numbers. Entry £7.50.
4. Peepo's Spirit Room is booked for evening meetings on Tuesday 24th June - Jennie will chair - and Tuesday 22nd July (the 4th Tuesday in July, not the last).
5. Stuart has invited all High Town Writers to a summer barbeque in his garden. We decided that most people would be around in August and thanked Stuart for his offer. Date tbc.
6. The next writing task is sleep related and based on this Travelodge survey:

Choose one of these findings to inspire a piece of writing (poetry, prose or drama):

The warm up activities related to the foundation stone of writing - word choice / diction.

We noted that good writers make careful word choices - even if they do not know the technical terms for their choices, which is not necessary to know. 

The two main word choices are meaning and how the word sounds.

We refreshed our memories of the main ways in which words can convey sound - and how the sound of the word can influence the mood or pace of writing. The four 'sound' choices we reviewed were onomatopoeia (when a word's sound echoes its meaning), assonance (when repeated vowel sounds a,e,i,o,u suggest internal rhyming), sibilence (when the soft 'c' or 's' ‘hisses') and alliteration (the repetition of the same sound - often a consonant - at the start of linked words). 

We practised finding alliterative words (and tried to make them relate to the sleep theme) by writing a One - Ten 'poem' 

Some of our alliterative choices, which could appear in the sleep task  were:

• ONE woozy, wild wondering, worrying, whispering, weird wild wave
• TWO talking teenagers, terrified tots, twinkling twilight, trembling trees 
• THREE thirsty thinkers, 
• FOUR fears, falling, fading, flying
• FIVE fitfully fidgeting, faraway fists fighting
• SIX sinful stories, soporific, somnambulists sickly sweating 
• SEVEN sorrowful, sexy, sleepy, sirens
• EIGHT aching agents aimlessly ate empty aeroplanes, eerie eels, elegant elephants
• NINE nerdy nighthawks noted naked neighbours, nifty nannies knitting knickers
• TEN terrible tantrums, tired toes, tumbling toads, tender temptress

We then looked at word choice. Getting the right word is so important - but it's also important not to confuse readers with too many obscure words - such as uhtceare  which could be perfect for the sleep task - if people knew what it meant! 

The Anglo-Saxons had a precise Old English word which meant 'pre-dawn worrying and anxieties' - uhtceare plural or uhtcaru singular. We used this as the base of an acrostic poem/prose to write about the dark time before dawn (uht) and the cares (ceare) we lie awake worrying about when we can't get back to sleep. Much of this writing was beautiful, amazing under the short time given for writing. Hopefully most people's Uhtceare (pronounced Oot Kay Aray) Acrostics will be typed up and shared on the blog over the next few weeks.

We finished the meeting with members sharing their writing on last month's theme - 'An Unexpected Smile'

If members who could not make the meeting want to share their writing, whether on a set theme or not, or try their hand at writing a sleep related 'Uhtceare' acrostic do send pieces to hightownwriters@gmail.com to be published on our blog - or publish directly on to the blog - you need a gmail account and an invitation - just ask if you want a new invitation sent.

The meeting ended at 9.45pm

Next meeting - Tuesday 24th June - chair Jennie

Next writing theme - something inspired by the Travelodge Sleep Survey (see above)

Celebration from the Air by Adam Rutter

credit: Adam Rutter

Paul, David, Ryan and Philip all stood on a hill, dressed in military uniform, overlooking the fields chequered in green and yellow. Rape-seed and grasslands were gridded by trees and hedgerows, like a picture frame. All four men watched an array of hot air balloons hanging in the air.

‘Look’, began Ryan. ‘That one is covered in the Union Jack flag’, he continued, pointing at the nearest balloon floating towards them.

‘I can see people inside the basket’, said Paul.

‘They’re waving at us’, said Philip.

They pulled their berets off their heads, and waved fervently at the passengers as the balloon flew over them. The passengers whooped and cheered. The burner seethed, blowing flames through the open canopy like a flame thrower. The balloon descended the slope-side of the hill, dipping towards flat terrain. The airmen plonked their hats back on their heads. They watched the rest of the balloons rising and sinking, growing larger, filling the azure-blue sky with red, white, yellow and dark blue gargantuan above. The huge floats drifted by like Chinese lanterns. The hiss of the burners rose, and dropped, giving way to a gloomy silence.

Church bells rang the tune, ‘White Cliffs of Dover’, which swelled, and faded in the wind. The airmen stood at ease. Philip had his hands behind his back. David looked down at a village. Tears welled up in his eyes; tears of grief and sadness.

‘Gran and Grandad will be celebrating this proud day’, said Ryan.

‘I wish my Grandad were here celebrating’, said David, sobbing.

‘Your Grandad would’ve been proud if he saw you standing here today’.

In the distance, there was a low hum. Five dark figures appeared above the horizon. The hum grew heavier, and thunderous. The figures became wider and more recognisable as they drew closer. Their distinctive shapes were unmistakably aircrafts. The aircraft in the middle was the biggest: the Lancaster Bomber, escorted by four spitfires.

‘Cadets’, began Philip. ‘Attention!’

The five aircrafts whined overhead. The airmen saluted.

What If? ... by Irena Szirtes

What if Polish soldiers rescued a captive Syrian bear cub during WW2? What if the bear became playmate, protector, confidant and comrade in battle? Sometimes the strangest “what ifs” are true. Wojtek (pronounced Voytek) was real; you can read about him in the book “Wojtek the Bear” by  Aileen Orr. The following relates how I first heard about the soldier bear:

    My sister spied them from the landing window: great coats and helmets tramping the lane, forever seeking Dad and now his tiny daughters, for he was Polish, they were not. Boots on the stair, blanket snatched away, barrel of a sub-machine gun; and as they squeezed the trigger, I awoke.

    I didn’t tell my parents, or run to their room; I cradled myself in Yorkshire dark, let River Rawthey’s song wash fear away.  

     My sole encounters with WW2 were Dad’s army coat, spread across my blankets, and his eagle cap badge, gracing the photo frame between our bedroom doors. Yet I shared echoes of his post-traumatic stress, unseen and unnamed in the 1950s. I can’t explain how Nazi uniforms stalked my sleep, how terror at being the Hunted infiltrated my subconscious. I had no idea Dad’s own dreams were relentless circles of escape and pursuit. It was as if I shared shards of his memories.

  Shards were all I knew in the waking world, too. He hid WW2 from his smallest daughter, like the shrapnel in his knee, except the story of Wojtek.

  “We had a bear in the Polish Army,”  Dad told me, as we drank hot milk in robust firelight, “a big brown bear called Wojtek. His name means ‘Happy Warrior.’”

“A bear? How did you get him?”

“He was a little cub, and the soldiers felt sorry for him. His owners were cruel and wanted to make him dance. So they swapped some food to get  Wojtek.”

  I snuggled to Dad’s heartbeat, slid sticky fingers round our terrier Judy’s  ears, as she settled on his lap.

“What did Wojtek do? Did he grow big?”

“Oh yes, he grew very big. He loved to play. He wrestled with the men and  drank beer. Just like naughty bears in stories, he sometimes helped himself to jam and honey. One day he stole the lady-soldiers’ washing, in fact he stole the line as well.”

My mind jumped to Mum hanging out our smalls, fielding Judy’s attempts to drop her muddy ball into the basket.

“Did he steal... their knickers?”

“He stole all their knickers, wrapped the line around his head!”

“Knickers on his hea-ead, knickers on his head!”

Dad was eager party to my giggles and squeals. Our exclusive moments of naughtiness always felt special.

“But the best thing,” he went on, as we recovered ourselves, “was that if a soldier felt sad, Wojtek knew, and would go and sit beside him.”

  I pictured this, fingering the shirt cuff that often escaped Dad’s jumper, recalling Judy's interest in my grazed knees and salty tears.

“ Like our little Judy?”

“Like our little Judy and lots of dogs, like lots of animals. They are all very clever, you know. And Wojtek would have stayed in the army if...”

   The sadness that sometimes lingered behind his smile settled, and instinct shook its head at my asking more. I watched sputtering flames spit sparks as charred logs snapped, and Dad offered Judy the remaining milk from his cup. She lapped it up before turning her attention to my busy  fingers. Nightmares were far away. I felt safe in my childhood world, too young to comprehend how Dad’s had been swept away a  few short years before.

   Shrapnel hid quietly in Dad's knee until he was eighty, when it moved and he underwent surgery. Facing anaesthetic caused a shift of memory shards too. There was no doubt Dad swore the Resistance pledge with his whole heart, that love for Poland embroidered his being. But after he returned from hospital, he confessed he’d saved two enemy lives. One had been a wounded officer struggling under fire, the other, a  soldier Dad encountered during his flight to the Polish Second Corps. He was ashamed. He was afraid we too, would be ashamed of a man who'd had compassion on his enemy.

“What was in your mind on the battlefield?”  I asked.

“I didn’t see an enemy.  All I could see was another human being.”

“ And the soldier?”

“ He was young like me, said he’d been taught Poles were ugly, like pigs, sub-human. He was surprised my German was so good. I’d suggested  we stop trying to kill or capture each other, agree to let each other go.”

I told my father I felt no shame.  I was proud, far prouder than if he’d watched a man die in agony, or mown a boy down.

“How did the young soldier respond?”

 “He was afraid, and he agreed with me. And so I got to the Polish Army in the end.”

“And to Wojtek,” I added, seeking to keep him from memories so sharp, he would not permit me to follow. “Tell me about the time he stole the ladies washing! I want the full version – you know - how he ran off with the line on his head, how scared the ladies were, how they softened when the men took Wojtek to meet them afterwards.”

We laughed, raised our glasses to Wojtek, remembering how I first heard his  story over hot milk in flickering firelight.

“You never get tired of hearing that one, do you?”

“Too right, I never do! And you can bet I never will!” 

Read more about Wojtek

Twice Upon a Time - a flash fiction by John Ayres Smith

So, let’s not say … once upon a time … how about … twice upon a time?

That is accurate really, because when I stood waiting in the queue in the post office, so odd, so out of character, I guess out of boredom and a little irritation, I grabbed one of those scratch cards. – Well, I thought I had but it turned out that I had grabbed two almost stuck together. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever bought one, ever. I’m not a gambler, don’t do the lottery, nor The Grand National but here I was standing in a queue farting around trying to scratch off the covering over  - well over what?

I see that it was simple – just words started appearing underneath where I was trying to use my nail to remove the rubbery covering.

No, it’s no good, I thought – why the hell do they call them scratch cards? If you have an itch, you scratch – no problem – if you fall flat on your face, if you’re lucky you come out with a scratch. – But these blooming things won’t allow me to scratch, so now I’m in trouble, thinking what I had on me that would do the job.

Suddenly, my turn at the counter as I balance the two cards in one hand, phone in the other, carrying my shopping as well.

I get the stamps, do the recorded delivery thing and then fumble as I leave the shop.

Bloody hell – where are they?

I had them in my left hand. I look around. - Can’t find them. I retrace my steps. I’m thinking – what an idiot – I never gamble – never ever and now I’ve lost them – both of them. They’d cost me a pound each – stupid – stupid.

Then a lady bumps into me “these yours?”

She hands them to me and then she apologises.

“I’m sorry, you dropped them, I picked them up, but I too had two scratch cards, but different types. Sorry, she said again.

“You know they’re winners, don’t you.”

I looked and there in front of me were the words …

Winner £1,000 – I misread it at first and thought it was a one pound win – bloody hell – I’ve won a thousand pounds!

Then I looked at the second card – it was only half scratched off, so I got my car keys and, frantically, scratched for England.

Unbelievable …

It read: Winner £2,500.

I gasped.

Chasing after the woman, I shouted “what do I do?”

“What d’you mean? Just take them back into the post office - they’ll tell you.”

So, there you go … “Twice upon a time.” – Just as I said.

Context:

Hightown Writers’ will often, in session, set a task, out of the blue, to write a themed piece, ‘off-the-cuff’ in say, ten minutes (as was this task). In this instance the theme was to write something “WEIRD” and John wrote it in exactly ten minutes. One should say that John specialises in writing flash fiction and short stories and he especially enjoys the challenge of producing work to a strictly timed deadline and with no notice.

Diary - by Adam Rutter

World War Two Flight Formation over Bridgnorth                                      by Adam Rutter

Friday, May 9^th , 2025

I started writing a short story this afternoon. The theme is “Everybody stood”. I have based my story on four men standing on a hill, watching an array of hot air balloons hanging in the air. The four main characters are RAF pilots, although that has not been highlighted in the story yet. The story coincides with the eightieth anniversary of VE Day in which the nation is celebrating this week. Coincidentally enough, Dad saw ten WW2 aeroplanes flying over our house while he was in the garden. 

The aeroplanes were flying in formation. I watched the fleet heading in a south-easterly direction through the window at the bottom of the stairs. The humming noises faded as the fleet slid behind the trees in the distance. When I went inside the kitchen, I heard the humming noises again. This time, I looked through the landing window, and saw the fleet coming back. Their formation had split into twos, threes and fours. Each squadron circled the skies, flying in various directions. I captured every passing fleet with my phone camera, to document the VE Day celebrations. The planes headed north once the wartime display was over.

 

Editor’s Note

If you want to see more planes this year’s Cosford Air Show is on Sunday 8^th June

RAF Cosford Air Show – The Royal Air Force's Air Show

Reminder - Meeting next Tuesday - 27th May

Next meeting : Tuesday 27th May at 7pm

in Peepo's Spirit Room

Chair: Liz

Writing task is:   ‘An Unexpected Smile,’  emphasis on the unexpected!

(Alternative homework could be developing writing begun in the April meeting on the theme “What If?” The idea being to think about avoiding over-used words, phrases, plot devices or characters.)

Stars are Amazing but not that much use In A Crisis! by Ruth Broome

 

And the star’s listened.

I’m sure they heard my silent scream.

But what could they do?

They were not alone here with you.

I was.

@ruthiewrites

Winner of Cosmos of Writers January Prompt Competition (January 2025)

Hoods and Bots: Part Nine by Irena Szirtes

credit: Canva/Irena Szirtes

     Victor strode toward us, every inch the officer in command. Early forties, ramrod straight, muscled and honed from runs and daily workouts, he might have looked sexy if his eyes hadn't cut like a blade, if his heart wasn't sheer as gun metal.

I climbed in the back of his new solar four-wheel drive all smiles.

“I don't want you on this trip, girl. I made it crystal to leadership, but they'd have none of it. Your choice, but you might as well know you’re not welcome.”

“Well, I'm not missing it, welcome or not, so it’s your problem, Victor.” 

I felt shaken, nonetheless. 

“Fine,” he retorted, and Roland cut in, “Leave her be.” 

The air trembled with obscenities, then Victor muttered, 

“Calls herself Hood? She’s Imiołczyk, hasn’t got the stomach for it.”

   Anger flared on behalf of my father and his predecessors, whose courage was legendary. Paweł was no exception, though Victor was doubtless being  disparaging about the German life he’d saved. I thought about Imiołczyk ladies, too, who’d joined the Polish Auxiliary Service for WW2, or served Intelligence here in WW3. But shame paraded the guard on the embankment before my eyes, and I wondered if Victor was right about me. Perhaps I wasn’t worthy of my name.

 Roland defending me was unexpected. His speech, quiet and halting as ever, somehow conveyed he might just be Victor’s equal. 

“This mission’s about...  negotiation, not battle with... the enemy.”

“She’ll complicate things. Any mission can mean battle with the enemy, you know that.”

“She knows about livestock...  there’s  a role for everyone, get off... her back.”

“Well, if we run into trouble, it’s on the record - I never wanted her here.” 

  He took one hand off the steering  wheel and waved it to end that particular conversation. They began comparing notes on combat techniques and tales of past action. Roland told stories of the non-Bot past Resistance experts had helped him create. It struck me I’d rarely heard a more accomplished liar: if I hadn’t been at Cameron's, I’d have swallowed every word. Perhaps I was surrounded by accomplished liars, and didn’t know it. I remembered Frank’s protestations of fidelity: do lies come as easily to us all? I feared they might. 

   When action tales failed, misogynistic jokes grew like warts, while Roland listened without comment.  Victor knew Imiołczyk tradition despised vulgarity in the presence of ladies, and that misogyny was unacceptable on base, but vomited filthy words which surely included every letter of the alphabet. Perhaps he hoped I’d demand he turn round and take me home. Then came vicious descriptions of pornographic holo-novels. I was surprised: Victor was respected for the way he’d raised the fitness and performance of our military units, on other bases, then on ours. He trained both men and women; I’d never heard women complain about misogyny, let alone violence. But I was well-used to ladies who could rival Victor’s colourful language.  Bhuresi could drink most men under the table, and could probably have taught Victor a few words of her own, though she rarely spoke that way in front of me. She'd honoured my parents’ wishes to avoid lewd language throughout my upbringing, and that had stuck.

   I decided to appear impassive, but made faces at Victor behind his back. Roland caught me through the sun-shield mirror, and something resembling amusement flittered across his face, though I swiftly righted mine. I was determined not to give Victor the power to phase me, or steal my jubilance about the mission I felt I'd been made for.

   We stopped at services on route, where Victor waved away the packed food and bought a large hot lunch for us all, complete with drinks and dessert. If he was addicted to violent porn, a furtive misogynistic git, he was a generous one when it suited him: the cost of food had rocketed as our economy flailed. We were returning  to the vehicle, when Roland surreptitiously pointed out two Greenshirts making right for us. “Get in,” Victor told us, “I’ll deal with this.”

     We watched him stride across and meet them half way. He briefly dipped his head then gave a military salute, and their body language softened. “Good thinking,” Roland said. “Show a bit of deference, and they’re... easier to fool.”

“Did that work for you then?” 

“Sometimes... often. Worked better than murderous looks...  anyway.” 

I smiled at his attempt at good-humoured ragging. It was odd to think Victor’s role was partly to protect me against whatever horror had broken open during Roland’s counselling sessions. Paradoxically, I was beginning to feel a little easier in his company, and perhaps, after hearing about the porn, preferred it to Victor’s, though that wasn’t saying much. I remembered my initial impression Roland was a groper, and wondered if I’d been wrong. By now I'd noticed his preference to keep some space between himself and others, whatever their sex. 

   We watched Victor hand over his phone with forged permission to travel and false identity. The Bots scanned his adapted chip and examined our cover plan, a visit to a lady in Kendal, Carla Braithwaite, who was recovering  from a heart attack. We were posing as Carla’s relatives and her home would be our temporary mission base. She’d been Hood most of her life and gladly volunteered, eager to be of use again following her illness. The Bots handed Victor his phone, and he held them in conversation a few more minutes, finishing with another salute.

“Another good move,” Roland said. “ Never appear in...  a hurry to get away.”

    As we approached Kendal junction, the Howgill Fells, suspended in  melting haze, rose humped and folded, scarred like sleeping dinosaurs. I was spellbound. Gloucestershire was beautiful even in its harried  state, but this spread of hills breathed mystery and majesty that conjured gasps of wonder. Something inside of me powered down as I gazed at the patchwork of colours and shifting cloud. I felt a connection I couldn’t explain, as if the hills were calling me home. 

“Awesome!” I exclaimed, leaning forward to look between Roland and Victor. Roland agreed with a barely perceptible nod; Victor ignored me. Then we took the junction,  and turned away from the Howgills toward Kendal.

Hoods and Bots: Part Ten by Irena Szirtes

credit: Canva/Irena Szirtes

    Our hostess welcomed us with hot coffee and friendly smiles. She lived in an aged terrace in Ann Street, not far from the reconstructed railway station, and a hill where locals believed Catherine Parr’s castle once stood. By the time we settled, it was early evening.  Victor and Roland decided to check out the town's drinking places, while I poured my life story out to Carla. She was the sort of person who drew it all from you without really trying. Soon I was in tears over Frank, something I’d declared would never happen again. Carla listened, then put a hand over mine.

“I know it feels impossible,” she said, “but believe me, these things have a way of working out. I’ve been through a messy divorce myself, so I know how bad it can feel. You’ll grow through it, and there’ll come a day you’ll see the best of your life is ahead of you, not behind.” 

“That’s almost what my mum told me,” I replied, wiping my eyes.

“You see? Mums know best.” 

    She showed me pictures of her son and daughter, who looked about my age, maybe a little older. Bubonic plague had almost taken her son, but it was losing intensity by the time it reached Cumbria, and vaccines and treatments, first researched after Covid in the 2020s, had become available. Carla lost an elderly Aunt, but her son had survived. Both her children were Hood, her daughter an innovative dog trainer at an underground base near Lancaster.

    It turned out Carla was a mobile hairdresser, and after a couple of glasses of wine, we decided a funky new haircut would be just the thing to combat any divorce-in-progress blues. We giggled our way through every snip, watching swathes of my once long hair drift into piles all around us. “Enough to stuff a cushion to smother Benson Parry with, ” Carla said, and we laughed all the more at such treasonable talk.

“But, being serious, if your mission works out, which I’m sure it will , you’ll be up this way again. Why don’t you re-activate this identity and stay with me? We'd have to run it past leadership, but I reckon they’ll agree if we present it with a bit of cunning.” 

She paused, looked at her handiwork in the mirror, and smiled.  “What do you think?” 

“Of my hair, or the plan?”

“Both!” 

“Love my hair, it’s brilliant! Just what I needed. The plan, well...”

“My doctor’s Hood, she’ll help. Strangely enough, she’s of Polish descent  like you  – Gosia Małych, Gosia Małych Sedgwick now. How about I ask her to record my condition as very delicate - well, that’s no exaggeration, really. Perhaps  she’d mention visits from ‘relatives’ should be allowed for the foreseeable future, just in case – well, you know. You could be my favourite  ‘niece’ -  I could ask her to sign you an open travel pass.” 

“But what about the danger? Keeping this identity could be far more dangerous for you, than if I assume a new one every time.”

“Danger? Sure, but I’ve lived with it for years. Why stop now? I looked it full in the face when my children were born. You don’t have children, do you Mia?” 

I shook my head.

“Well, when you find a partner, you think you know all there is to know about love, yes? But when the children come, you know you know – I mean, you know beyond doubt you’d die for them, without a second thought - yes, even kill for them -  I  tell you, it’s powerful. Back then, I seriously considered forgetting Resistance and towing the line. Wasn’t my duty, first and foremost, to protect my own children?  But conforming is no guarantee of safety, as we see again and again – not with a dictator as paranoid  as Benson Parry. And how could I deny my kids integrity, a sense of right and wrong? How could I look my children in the face, if they watched me walk with evil? Danger is always with us – better to court it with what’s  right, than with what’s wrong.”

“When you put it like that  - I mean, you could have chosen  to live as an ordinary citizen and keep your head down -  you’re one brave lady, Carla.”

Laughter danced in her eyes. “Agreed! Having kids is the bravest thing you’ll ever do! You never lose the conviction you’d die for them, but hell, they test you to the limit and back!”

We laughed before I said, “Well, it sounds like they turned out alright!”

“You haven’t met them yet!” 

We laughed again, and I knew Carla was happy with herself, and happy with her children. I found that compelling, with divorce pending, and feeling I wasn’t enough in so very many ways.

“Sometimes, Carla, I wish I was like you, first generation Hood. I’ve this awesome  heritage to live up to, past and present -  even my cousin Sophie has some amazing  undercover role, though I’m not sure what.  I just don’t feel – well, maybe I’m not what I ought to be, not like any of them.”

“I hope you’re not like any of them! I hope you’re like just one -  yourself. I used to be like you, worried I couldn’t please anyone. But then I got older and well – learned to embrace my own special brand of weirdness!  Look at you  –  hand-picked for this mission because, unlike anyone else on your base, you’re the one who’s researched livestock farming.”

“So you think my contribution, courier, general odd-jobber and livestock freak, is ok?”

“Of course it is, and don’t let anyone – especially those men -  tell you otherwise. That Victor’s a bit full of himself, isn’t he?” 

    We spent the rest of the evening sipping hot chocolate. It was laced with the bracing homemade alcohol Carla’s doctor had banned, and we drank a little too much while sharing extracts from comic holo-novels. We laughed ourselves silly.  I’d forgotten how good it felt to laugh until I cried.   We tried not to catch each other’s eye when the men returned stone faced and sober, because the merest look tipped us into laughter all over again.  The connection between us felt all the more delicious, because Victor and Roland sensed we shared a girl thing, in which they had no part.

Hoods and Bots: Part Eleven by Irena Szirtes

credit: Canva/Irena Szirtes

 We’d pulled over on a snaking Lakeland road where silence was so thick, you felt you could reach out and grasp a big ball of it. Sheer, scree-scarred mountain menaced above, and dropped steeply below us. We stared in disbelief at the messages we'd received a few moments before. In a  different code for each of us, the meaning was clear: ‘No further route information to be transmitted. Mission aborted, return to base.’

 For a moment, none of us spoke. There could only be one explanation: security had been compromised. I knew there’d be another opportunity, but for now, the only sheep I’d see would be from the vehicle. I was about to say I’d appreciate taking a walk on my own, to drink in the scenery and make peace with this unexpected blow, when Roland spoke.

“So that’s it then. We return... to Gloucestershire.”

“Or do we?” Victor jumped out, and by the time he reached the front passenger door, he was pointing a smart weapon at Roland’s head. “Get out. It’s your turn to drive.” 

“Victor, what are you doing?”  I kept my voice steady, but feared I knew: Victor had discovered Roland’s Bot past. Radicals were adamant such backgrounds could not be tolerated, even in defectors.

“Roland’s defected, he’s done missions, he’s with us now, “ I went on. It sounded weak. Against reason, I hoped Victor didn’t know about the locket. Leadership had a plan, I told myself, Bhuresi told me so. We were to play along. Why should Victor be judge and jury? The anger that overwhelmed me at the ancient oak flaunted itself before me. I'd come close to being Radical myself that day, close to becoming the thing I hate.

“Shut the f*** up... this has nothing to do with you.” He bellowed at me, shocking the mute rocks in this vast, unsullied space.  “I told you, girl, you’re not supposed  to be here.” He flung a ‘bug’ – an explosive device operated by the setting on his smart gun – onto the back seat.

“I don’t have time for you or your scruples. Move one f****** muscle, there’ll be Imiołczyk scattered where it belongs - all over the hills you love.” 

“Or over this obsessively-clean vehicle,” I remember thinking. 

“Drive ,” he barked, looking at dashboard map, still keeping his weapon trained on Roland’s skull. 

  It probably didn’t take too long to reach the remote lake, though it seemed the longest journey of my life. I felt a growing tumour of dread deep inside. It  sapped my body strength, but my mind was energised, acrobating, rehearsing  every possible scenario, seeking a way out, as the bug kept clicking a reminder it was live and ready for detonation. 

 The handbrake engaged, and Roland turned to look at Victor.  

“What the hell... do you think.... you’re doing?”

Victor laughed.  “I don’t have to think, Bot.” His voice was quietly sinister  now. 

He clicked the gun and the ‘ready’ indicator flashed. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

My eyes instinctively screwed themselves shut, but instead of a shot, I heard Victor say, “I know who you are, Agent Jason Pargeter.”

The name Pargeter rang a bell, but I couldn’t quite place it. What came next beggared belief.  “You’re Benson Parry’s Spymaster Mars, are you not? Would you like to know who I am?”

Roland took a moment, perhaps playing for time, and I had to admire his cold, calm demeanour.

“t seems a good day... for introductions,” he said. 

“Then you’ll be delighted to know, Agent Pargeter, alias Mars, that I am... “ He paused a moment, as if to bring the revelation home. “I am Sully.”

My spine turned to splintering  ice. Sully: the legendary Radical every Bot feared! No one knew Sully’s identity, but Hood and Bot alike knew his reputation. He’d earned almost supernatural status among Bots, thanks to superior Resistance technology. He could appear undetected anywhere,  kill unheard and unseen.  Roland was doomed.

Terror sharpened my instincts, and I sensed it briefly wash over Roland, as he took a second or two to consider his answer. Did he protest he was a true defector, able to supply vital information from inside the Regime? Did he plead disillusion with Benson Parry, pledge loyalty to the Resistance, or beg for a chance to prove himself? Surely, he must!  

No. He said the last thing I expected.

“If I’m Mars and you’re...  Sully, then why the hell are you pointing that thing...  at me, instead of...  her?”

My jaw dropped. Nothing made any sense. If Roland was really Parry’s Spymaster, why would he say such a thing when confronted by the most feared Radical in Resistance history? 

“The same reason you’d be pointing it at me, Agent Pargeter, if you’d known who I was. There are rumours, always rumours: even about you. The barrel of a gun has a way of blasting rumour and getting to the truth.” 

He turned to look at me. “See how easy it is to kill Bots, Little Hood? You should try it sometime. But I only kill selected Bots. This one gave the right answer.”

   He turned back to Roland, leaving me more confused than ever. That Roland was undercover was no surprise, though he hardly fitted my concept of a Spymaster; that Victor was with the Regime seemed impossible.  If he was, why did he kill Bots? How could he serve Benson Parry, then go out murdering his henchmen? 

“I’m not wasting this opportunity, “ Victor went on, to Roland this time. “We’re within spitting distance of Resistance farms and bases. I’m near to completing the map. Let’s check in at some local HQ and see if we can get some intelligence  together.” 

“Agreed,” Roland replied, “but we have.. Hood.”

“Hood after a fashion. Hell, if they’d  just listened!” He turned to me again. “I told you not to come, didn’t I, girl?  Fortunately for you, I’m better than Bot. I don’t kill women for the hell of it.”  

I spat at him and missed, just as he added, 

 “Unless I really have to.”  With that he turned back to Roland. “Do we execute her now, or take her in?”

“No execution... yet. She’s wanted on account of her father, on account of her uncle, the one that tried to...  assassinate the cabinet. You know -  ‘All Imiołczyks to be apprehended as... enemies of the state.’ HQ will want... to question her.”

“What can she tell them we don’t know? She’s a waste of space, not important  enough to know anything.  We’ve lived on the base – bases in my case - long enough to tell them every f****** thing they need to know.”

“Speak for...  yourself.”

“Believe me, Agent Pargeter,  the map’s almost complete. I’ve a pay check coming, Resistance bases are doomed. So is she. Whether you proved loyal to Parry or not, she was always going to be unnecessary complication.”

I was still too confused and angry to speak, even when Victor finally deactivated the bug. As he handcuffed me, I spat in his face, but he simply wiped his cheek. 

 “And don’t even think about trying to run,” he added, “Agent Pargeter inherited all his mother’s skills.” He opened a locker behind the back seat, pulled out a fine automatic rifle, and handed it to Roland. 

   It was then realisation dawned: the sweet, elderly face in Roland’s locket was not his mother, and I realised I’d known all along deep down. But the connection I made with the name Pargeter beggared belief. Ellen Pargeter, who died of ovarian cancer around the time I was born, had fought WW3, long before heat-seeking weapons were standard issue. She was a Resistance heroine, a sniper whose daring choice of targets had shortened the war as she racked up more kills than Lyudmila Pavlichenko. Lyudmila's nickname was Lady Death, but Ellen’s was Death’s Face, a reference to the paleness of her skin, eyes and hair. Roland was certainly about the right age to be her son, and I remembered seeing images of her with a small, insignificant-looking boy. But that made less sense than ever. How might a Resistance heroine produce a Spymaster for Benson Parry? 

They swopped seats, and Victor took the wheel again, while Roland sat nursing the rifle, looking it up and down, checking out its features.

 “Good to handle...  one of these again,” he said. He glanced at me through the sun-shield mirror from time to time. 

Hoods and Bots: Part Twelve by Irena Szirtes

credit: Canva/Irena Szirtes

 How do you sleep when pain savages your body, when there’s hunger cramps but no appetite, when your throat burns for want of fluid? When you lie in a stone cell, chilled to your core? How can you rest when you were beaten with clubs and rifle butts, kicked again and again in the ribs, then flung down stairs into the dark like a rag? 

“Make your bed there, Hood,” she’d hissed, “where inmates died of Bubonic Plague, where rats performed just punishments.” 

She’d been willowy, with beautiful doe-like eyes, the sort men might  believe incapable of cruelty. But she’d been acid-tongued as a witch, and strong as any man. 

  Your senses are in overdrive; you can hear distant cries of distress, barely perceptible drips of water, light switches somewhere nearby, muffled footfall as guards patrol the corridors. You know tomorrow is execution day. Your emotions free fall, as overwhelming urges to live vie with everything  you believe. Is there a way out? Could you pay lip service to Benson Parry, and carry on as you were, hidden in the base?  But that option is for citizens, never for Hood. You hear Carla, and this time she seems to rebuke you, “Danger is always with us. Better to court it with what’s right, than with what’s  wrong.” 

Your forebears speak too, from Belsen, from Auschwitz, from the Polish resettlement  camps, an array of men and women with pale faces, shaved heads, imbued with almost indecent resilience and strength.  My uncle, who probably died under torture, shakes his head, bitterly disappointed, and I hear my father, whose shouts were heard as he walked toward the scaffold:

“My death is a seed! Seeds might sleep for years, but then they split hard ground and break boulders! Every Resistance death is seed, and one day forests of freedom will grow! Fight, fight, always fight!” 

Even Paweł, whose compassion had seemed to make him more accessible, now chides me : “Fight as hard as you must.”

 You are Imiołczyk:  you wish you weren’t, but you are. You know you’re not ready, that life should carry on underground, hidden from Regime view. But you see death hurtling toward you, grimly determined on its collision course. 

  You tell yourself those before you endured worse far longer, and fear you may not show the courage they did. You agonise over what you might reveal if they... and you can’t begin to contemplate the worst.  The best you can hope for is swift execution. 

  Then your life parades itself before you. You regret not speaking with your mother often enough since she moved. You regret never telling her how much you appreciate her efforts to give you the best possible start, despite being suddenly and cruelly widowed. You remember how, as a small child, you’d instinctively known she’d have died for you, just as Carla said, and realise she probably still would. Then there’s Bhuresi – dear Bhuresi! She’s life-force personified, and you realise you never saw that she too, made sacrifices you took for granted. It’s crystal: she said she never wanted marriage or children for herself, yet still found buckets of love for a little girl who couldn’t understand where her daddy and favourite uncle had gone. 

 And what rushes you like a burgeoning flood? The need to try, despite the struggle, to forgive your husband.  It’s strange: you know you’ll never tell him now, but despite all you said, and despite all he did, you finally understand Bhuresi was right: you still love him. You hadn’t  admitted it to yourself,  but now you are about to die, there’s no escaping truth. It won’t make the slightest difference to him, because he’ll never know, but it makes a difference to you. You want to rid your whole being of the bitter toxins determined to hinder your recovery from betrayal trauma, determined to poison the rest of your life, however long or short it might be. But it’s complicated. You don’t want forgiveness to suggest what he did was ok.  It still hurts. You still wouldn’t stop the divorce, though he’s been delaying it all he can. To stop it would mean betrayal might happen again, and you can’t  contemplate that, so you go round in circles: forgive or not forgive? And despite the conflict, if you could see just one person before you die, it would be him. 

 You fret about the dogs too. You wonder if they’re looking out his window, anticipating your return, and you weep, but are so very glad they were banned from this mission. Thank God they’re safe! Thank God? Thank who? 

You realise  you never gave God, if He exists, a second thought. You wonder about Him, because many Imiołczyks were motivated by deeply-held beliefs. One devout ancestor, Wilhelm, saved Jews and non-Jews alike by forging identity papers and arranging  safe passage; others suffered for resisting  Stalin’s enforced atheism. There were Protestant and Catholic Imiołczyks, all British citizens, fighting side by side as recently as WW3, but no one paid much heed to God in the 2080s. You wonder if the 2080s have it right or wrong. And was it faith that moulded Paweł's thinking, faith stronger than Resistance philosophy, when he saved that young German’s life, when he refused to become what he hated? For the first time in your life, when there is nothing but hours left, you decide to pray. What is there to lose? 

 You don’t  have the nerve to ask for deliverance; there’s an instinct, as death draws near, you don’t deserve answers  - even for modest prayers - but you hope God  will understand and somehow make a way for you, that perhaps He’s better than you ever thought He was. You give Him permission, if He’s there, to help you find real forgiveness inside yourself for your husband, and add you hope He might find the same for you. You admit you enjoyed being spiteful to Frank, and shamed him in front of others; that you don’t  understand what the implications of forgiveness would be if you somehow escaped execution and got home. You say it’s so hard, because though you won’t take Frank back, you long for that relationship to be how it used to be. You wish you could be who you used to be, but you will always be someone different now, because you can’t come out of betrayal trauma the person you once were. 

Then you go off at a tangent, bellow and rage at God, roar your frustration, because life is disappointing, cruel, such unmitigated shit. There! You use a word should never pass an Imiołczyk lady’s lips! Once God has borne the full brunt of your rage and more, you are empty, worn out, and sleep fitfully, drifting in and out of time. It’s still dark when you wake again, and realise you understand something  for the very first time: forgiveness and trust are two very different things. Forgiving Frank would not mean I’d have to trust him again, because trust would have to be repaired bit by bit, by his words and actions, over time. You feel enlightened, so you  whisper “OK, God, if that’s You, I’m in.” And while your body shakes and aches and your throat still burns, you feel spite and bitterness begin to leech away, and something sweet, strong and warm washing over you. You bask in that for a while, even fall asleep in its embrace, until you wake once more with your real enemies on your mind.

“No,” you say to God, “that’s different. I can’t begin to think about forgiving Victor and Roland, and the Bots who killed my father, or made my uncle disappear. That’s a much taller order.”

  You realise you only saw the tip of ancestral anger, that fateful day at the ancient oak, that you ‘ve never truly faced its depth, let alone processed  it. You realise doing so might take more time than you've  got. You hope that God, if He’s still listening, might be ok with that, because to say you’d work it out  ‘one day at a time’ would be stupid. Maybe a moment at a time is enough. It will have to be, it’s all you’ve got.