And the winner of the prose contest is:-

Get Off My Cloud by Alan Reynolds

 Edward sat slumped in his chair by the table. As his blurred vision became slowly clearer, the object shimmered in front of him, reflecting across the lens of his glasses.

It darted to and fro, mirrored yet again in the depths of his eyes. As his thoughts gathered, he became aware of his surroundings, and then recognised the creature before him.

  I know how you feel he thought….. and like you, I can't remember anything for very long either. 

The eyes looked back at him, in a dull unblinking stare. Magnified by the water and glass. We come into this world, make our mark and go. Although I feel I have not so much made a mark, as left a smear…..we are alike, You and I. You swim around all day in your prison, possibly yearning to escape. I sit here in this old folks home and that is my prison. I definitely want to escape. Shall we go together? I could swallow you and they would have to take me to hospital…. I may be able to escape from there…. No, I must be going mad after all… to think such a thing. The goldfish just swam round and round, seeming to mouth unheard words repetitively. Something else he had in common with many of the inmates of the Regalia Rest Home.

Edward turned to survey his fellow prisoners. They were mostly oblivious to their plight. Just sitting and staring, or softly shaking and rocking in their chairs. Most of them chemically subdued, so that they would be 'easier for the busy staff to deal with'. Edward had also been sedated, but it was beginning to wear off. He had long ago learnt not to show any signs of recovery though. The pills or needle were never far away, and it paid to sit quietly. He should have received an oscar for some of his performances. The T.V. blinked in the corner. Most of the people were looking at it, but he doubted that any of them were actually aware of the programme at all. All lost in their secret drug induced worlds. Maybe that is a freedom of sorts he thought. An escape of the mind anyway. Even if your body didn't move, your thoughts could be anywhere. But that wasn't enough for him. He wanted to get out. He needed to tell the outside world how things were run here. It was outrageous and wrong. He still felt tired and now, slowly drifted into a natural sleep, rather than chemically induced.

Once again, as in most days, Edward sat slumped in his chair by the table. He was just rousing out of a strange dream, in which he was a shepherd, watching a flock of sheep and being mesmerised, as he watched them being herded together with the aid of a sheepdog collie.

 They made an excellent team and worked with an almost telepathic precision.

  The sheep were like little clouds drifting this way and that and changing shape as they went, mirroring the real clouds drifting overhead, then gradually and surreally they interchanged completely and the sheep were in the sky drifting, whilst the clouds were now on the ground. Yet, he and the dog still carried on herding them together,  until they formed one big cloud, which suddenly evaporated away. He looked up to see sheep suddenly hurtling down towards him and this woke him up……

 He gave such a start, that he unwittingly alerted the unwelcome attentions of the nurse on duty.

She rushed over to him and he feigned being out of it once again. She left him alone, thinking he was still sedated. He would have to be more careful. Clouds again…. The sheep were a new twist. But since he could remember, he always dreamt of clouds.  

They were always fleeting and out of reach, but they seemed to haunt him. What was it about clouds?

Just then, a telephone rang from somewhere down the corridor and the nurse in attendance went swishing off to answer it, her shoes clattering as she went.

 Edward used this opportunity to look around him a little less furtively. Good, there were no staff now in the room. Just the other comatose residents. He ventured towards the corridor and glanced around the corner. No staff around at all. This was a rare moment. He took the opportunity and shuffled surprisingly quickly to the window. He  tried the latch, but it was firmly locked. Peering out to his right, he could see that in the next room there were French windows leading out to the gardens. There were two male nurses, smoking and chatting on the patio. He shuffled to the room and managed to hide unnoticed behind a curtain in the corner. He waited patiently.

 Then, down the corridor, came the clatter of the nurse returning. As she entered the room, it took but a short while for her to realise that Edward was gone. She ran to the other two nurses and nervously asked if they had seen him. Stubbing out their cigarettes they ran in seeing how distressed she was and said they hadn't seen him but they'd help find him. All three, fanning out in different directions from the room.

This was his chance. They hadn't locked the French windows and Edward slipped out to the garden, keeping hidden by the foliage. Freedom! It felt strange, but it also made  him feel alive again - for the first time in years. It had recently been raining and the leaves dripped onto his face as he hid. His senses were overwhelmed. The smell of fresh rainfall and the sight of the garden, the touch of nature and the refreshing drops of water and wind on his face. He hadn't realised how much he had missed these things. He could hear more clamouring from inside and decided to make a break for it to the wall and he just made it in time. Five nurses now stood around outside the French windows, looking in all directions and heatedly arguing amongst themselves.

 He kept in the shadows and took in his surroundings. The wall stretched to his right  all the way to the main gate. And to his left, it led to the garden supply shed. He had been in the army as a young man and knew the value of camouflage and decided to  push a few large leaves into the tie-belt on his dressing gown. This actually worked better than he had hoped and he moved slowly and undetected towards the shed. This didn't even have a lock. He carefully discarded his camouflage and slipped inside.

There were several garden tools and an old jacket, hat and gloves, which he put on over his pyjamas. The perfect disguise he thought and confidently stepped out of the  shed, in full view, and froze……..

 There, at his slippered feet, he had stepped into a puddle. As the ripples stilled, he could clearly see the reflection in it. It was a cloud. Big, white and fluffy. But he was unable to move. The sight of it sent shivers through him. He looked up, and could see the cloud, majestic and imposing, above him. Then, as in his dreams, the cloud and the reflection started to change and he could feel himself being carried up by the reflected cloud and the real cloud was coming down to meet him. He felt wonderful, real freedom, as he rose towards the heavens. He was just passing the cloud on its way down, when he was suddenly brought back down, as the puddle was disturbed again.

Ripples went everywhere, as the five nurses grabbed him. He was struggling and shouting, "no, no, please no". He looked down and shouted,

"NO! GET OFF OF MY CLOUD" -

"PLEASE…. I was going to heaven…." he trailed off. The nurses dragged him away and his short lived freedom and ecstacy, were replaced by the remonstrations and firm grips of the nurses.

 Later… Edward sat slumped in his chair by the table. Sadly, this is where he belonged.

 

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The winner of the poetry section was:-

 

Paint it Black by Liz Martinez

 

In a town house in Westminster, close to Big Ben,

Politicians were gathered, led by the PM,

In the Cabinet room, where they'd sorted the war,

Their expenses, the banks. Next big problem? The door.

There had been some complaints; those who liked to deride

Had called for a re-paint, at least, the outside.

Though the point was parochial, the budget was small,

It was proving a challenge to satisfy all.

There had been consultation, a box for suggestions,

A three line whip vote, strictly no-cash-for questions.

The shortlist included a massive yang-yin;

Black and white, nestling commas with big full stops in;

The Chancellor's fave - perfect budget day scene -

The symbol of balance, but it upset the Queen.

She had personally hoped for a Banksy design,

Something cool, something funky, or even stripped pine.

For the popular vote, red was tipping the scales,

But was scuppered by HRH, The Prince of Wales.

The PM whinged, "I live here, this is my home,

I want cheap, I want cheerful, I want monochrome.

Knock! Knock! Knock at the door; "Let him in, it's Black Rod,

Always late for a meeting, the miserable sod."

He entered the room with his orb and his mace

And a scruffy young boy with a pink cheeky face.

"This boy's had an idea," said Rod, "Tell'em, Jack."

"I was thinking," Jack muttered, "you could paint it black."

"Blimey riley!" they shouted, "Emulsion? Gloss? Matt?"

No-one said, but all thought, I wish I'd thought of that.

The boy got a knighthood, (though genius he ain't)

Number Ten got a sign outside; WARNING! WET PAINT!"   

 

 

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 Gerry Savill won 2nd place with her short story:

'Get off My Cloud'

Lying on her back, on the wet grass, staring at the grey sky, Abby wasn't sure if she was crying or if it was the rain making her face wet. She had cried so much in the last few months she was sure there were no more tears left.

            She couldn't believe it had been less than six months since Callum had brought her here, to lie watching the sky as they had hundreds of times before, to tell her his devastating news. It was the obvious place to bring her. They had spent their lives watching the clouds skittering across the sky, laughing until their sides ached. Only they didn't laugh that day. One of them was crying. The other dying.

            Abby remember the day she had first met Callum. He had moved next door with his mother. From the moment they met they had become inseparable. That first day Abby had rushed back to her mother, gushing with praise for her new friend.

"Mum. Callum is so clever. He found animals in the sky. He showed me a giraffe and a polo bear in the sky. It was amazing." Abby had said.

            "I'm glad you have found a new friend, although I think it may have been a polar bear you saw," her mother had replied.

            Sometimes they would lie for hours, studying the clouds, trying to find the shapes, wanting to out do the other. They were told off on numerous occasions for lying in the wet grass.

            "What do you want to be when you grow up?" Callum had asked her one day.

            "A police dog," she had replied. He had laughed so hard, hot tears of shame had rolled down her face. He had stopped laughing.

            "That's ok, you can be a police dog if you want. We'll find a way."

            "I'm stupid. Everyone says so, 'cept Mum. I heard one of my aunts say "Not the full ticket that one". I guess it's why dad left."

            "Don't listen to them. I 'spect your dad left cos he didn't love your mum anymore. Nothing to do with you. He would love you, anyone would."

            "Do you love me" she had asked innocently.

            "Of course, you'll always be my best friend."

            The years past and still they came to the hill. 

            "I've got a boyfriend," she had told him one day.

            "So do I," he had replied. She had looked at him and nodded, accepting what she had always really known.

            "Be careful," she had said.

            But it was her that should have been careful. It was bright sunshine on the hill when they met that day but she was surrounded in gloom. She had no hesitation in confiding her pregnancy to Callum but was scared to tell her mum.

            "She doesn't like Mike. She thinks he's shiftless, reminds her of my dad. But I know he's not like that. I can change him. I love him."

            Inside Callum agreed with her mum but he would never let her know that. Mike had made it clear what he thought of Callum and his friendship with Abby and h didn't want to do anything to jeopardise that.

            "I'll always be here for you. Come on let's tell your Mum together."

            A hasty wedding had followed. Abby seemed happy initially, especially when baby Helen arrived.

            "Life is just fine," she had said one day when they met on the hill with the baby. Mike had tried to forbid her meeting Callum. She refused to give in to his wishes completely but did not want to antagonise him so they met when he was at work.

            "Are you sure?" Callum asked.

            She just nodded and he was sure he saw her chin tremble with unshed tears.

            "You don't have to put up with any nonsense from him you know. You can always come and stay with me."

            "No, he's my husband and I will make it work," she had replied stubbornly.

            She tried very hard but eventually the day came when she broke down in tears,

            "He's got someone else," she had said.

            "Good, he'll let you go. You don't need him. You're too good for him."

            "I should have realised he was no good in the beginning when he didn't like you. You're the kindest person I know."

            Callum laid down and pointed towards the sky.

            "Look. A heart. That means you will find love again."

            "I don't think I'll bother."

            "Don't say that. There's someone out there for you, someone good. Just wait and see."

            And she did find someone but by then it was too late for Callum.

            "How long have you got?" she asked, not wanting to hear the answer.

            "Months. Maybe. Who knows. Some survive with Aids for years, other go quicker. It depends on how it gets you. I hope I go quick."

            "Don't say that," she had screamed.

            They had held each other and cried. Eventually, cried out, they had lain down in the grass. Callum had pointed to a lonely cloud.

            "That's going to be my cloud. I shall sit on that, complete with harp and watch over you and Helen."

            "Will you save enough room for me when my time comes?"

            "No way. Don't you dare to try muscle your way onto my cloud. You will have to find your own. I shall be very selfish and throw any interlopers off. No-one will be allowed on my cloud."

            Now she was alone on the hill. Callum's funeral had ended hours ago but she was lost. She felt as if part of her was missing.

            "I thought I'd find you here." Toby sat down beside her. He was everything Mike had not been; kind, loving, generous. Callum had liked him and, more importantly, Abby felt, was that Toby had liked Callum. He didn't see him as a threat; just her friend.

            "It hurts just to breath," she said.

            Toby just nodded and held her hand. The rain fell relentlessly, the sky a dense grey forbidding sheet above them.

            "Do you think there is a heaven?" she asked.

            "I hope so." Toby lay down beside her, heedless of the wet soaking into his suit.

            "If anyone got there it would be Callum," she said.

            "I wish I had had the time to know him better."

            "So do I. I think you could have been good friends."

"He asked me to look after you."

            She smiled. "He always thought he had to look out for me. Probably thought you couldn't say no to a dying man. I won't hold you to it."

            "Seems like a good idea to me," he said.

            They didn't need to speak but just stared at the grey sky.

            "What was the fascination with looking at the sky?" he finally asked.

            "It was just our thing, something we did that parents couldn't take from us, I guess. Callum admitted once that he used to scour books to find unusual animals to find for me. I thought he was so intelligent."

            "Can you see anything today?" he asked.

            "It's too grey. I think it will be grey for a long time now."

            "He wouldn't want you to be so sad."

            "He shouldn't have died then."

            Toby was at a loss what to say. Like most men he didn't do emotion very well. The he spotted it.

            "It's not all grey. Look"

            Across the sky floated a small white cloud, pristine against the dark sky. Abby wiped the tears from her eyes to get a better look. A single fluffy cloud, just the sort you would expect an angel to be sitting on. As she stared she thought she saw something in the cloud.

            "What is that?" she said pointing.

            "What, I can't see anything."

            "There in the middle of the cloud. It can't be, can it?"

            Suddenly Toby saw what she did.

            "No. It must be a trick of the light or some dust or something. A shadow from one of the other clouds." He didn't sound convincing, even to himself.

            They watched as the cloud moved gently across the sky, blown by the breeze. Had they really seen a figure sitting within the cloud? Probably not, they decided, just the raw emotion of the day finally getting to them.

            Somehow though Abby felt calmer, a small glimmer of hope seeping back into her heart.  Maybe Callum hadn't left her entirely after all.                        THE END

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The second place of the poetry competition was won by: 

PAINT IT BLACK by Eileen Baldwin

When I heard a story about Jack,

It seemed all they could do was to paint it black

Yes he would yell or scream at his brother Jim.

Was he so bad did no one care for him?

 

No one else noticed that his mother was never there.

Or that his father would often drink and swear.

I noticed his black eye and bruised legs one day.

But all I did was to send the boy out to play.

 

Jack fought and scrapped his way through school,

Many thought him a bully, some thought him cruel.

Could no one melt his heart of stone?

Did he always have to be alone?

 

At last he left school, and joined the forces as a cadet.

Would this be a turning point, his past could he forget?

Tommy Stratham befriended him, and became Jack's mate.

Calling on him and whistling by the gate.

 

They volunteered for war, they had nothing to lose.

Which battalion to join, which one would they choose?

They enlisted with the Marines both passed every test.

Manoeuvres in all countries where they were among the best.

 

Tommy and Jack arrived home by a special plane

They would never go to war, or laugh again.

Both given heroes welcome as they came back.

Now playing at their funeral, was a song called Paint it black.

 

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The third place winner in the short story section was :-

The third place of the poetry competition was:-

Goat's Head Soup by Rob West

 When I look back on life’s memorable evenings, I always think of our dinner at Sergi’s. A three-course dinner, followed by chocolates.

Sergi had invited me and two other friends, Sonia (romantic goth) and Alex (action man, lothario, prankster) one wet September week-night. We arrived at the same time and sat down in his living-room – the others on the sofa, me on the pouffe. For half an hour we chatted with the TV on, while the participants on a reality programme did something with a jar of ants. We then sang  for a bit on a karaoke machine which Sergi had bought in the sales. After 20 minutes, a neighbour shouted QUIET! for the fourth time and we stopped.

“Shall we dine?” Sergi asked, went to the kitchen and brought out the spinach toast. It was, he said, his grandmother’s recipe. During this first course, accompanied by a natty red wine which I had bought in the shop round the corner, we conversed about many topics including: the shitty job which Sonia had found herself in the social services: a funny photo of a cat in boots which was going round the Internet; an earthquake disaster in Peru; and the weather – Alex invented some obscene versions of the weather forecast which made us hysterical with laughter…

And then we moved on to the second course, which occupies a large space in my memory.

I think Sergi had found something in a magazine and thought it would be a good idea to do an experiment in molecular gastronomy, with us as guinea-pigs. The recipe, as I recall, was called Goat’s Head Soup with Chilis, a kind of oriental stew in nodding tribute to the Rolling Stones. However no goat was harmed in the making of the stew, as far as I could tell. Some other animal was involved.

He presented the pot with a small smile of triumph. Smoke rose from the tureen and filled part of the room. I recall the smell of a spice, perhaps cumin, which did not augur badly. We joked a bit about his experiment, jokes intermingled with a certain shared anxiety, because – to tell the ungilded truth – Sergi was not very well known for his culinary skills, although he did like to eat and, more particularly, down vodkas.

I put down my plate of stew and (gluey, slightly burnt) rice, and waited some minutes for it to cool. We talked about a celebrity’s latest facelift, and roundly condemned her new nose. I think it was Sonia who was the first to try the Goat’s Head Soup. After a mouthful, she made a sound whose intention was basically to express appreciation – more I suppose from politeness than a spontaneous delight in its taste.

Finally I decided that I could hold off no longer from confronting the stew, although the assorted bones mixed in red-brown sauce did not greatly appeal. But there are times in life when social norms, our common humanity, and a spirit of adventure overcome our primeval inhibitions.

I took my first mouthful. It was not as bad as I had anticipated. It is difficult to describe the exact taste, so it seems better to use words like exotic, different, novel to describe the sensation in the mouth.

The conversation took a new, more philosophical turn: what is the most absurd way to die? Alex recounted various examples he had read of ridiculous or shameful deaths and Sonia, Sergi and I contributed several others, for example the Portuguese dictator who died when his deckchair collapsed.

I took a second mouthful. My palate had by now become accustomed to the flavour, and there was therefore an equilibrium between expectation and reality. I cannot say I liked it  - the combination of the salty meat, the peculiar sauce and the mushy /burnt rice was in truth slightly unpleasant – but I started to gain confidence that I could finish it. This, after all, is the guest’s most important duty. I too made a, more or less convincing, noise to indicate my satisfaction with the meal prepared for us.

It was then, as often happens in life when it seems that everything is going fine, that things took a turn for the worse. I was laughing at Alex’s latest instance of an absurd death – a fireman who fell from a tree after rescuing a lost cat. And casually, without looking at my plate, I took a third mouthful. A savage sensation seized my mouth. My tongue burnt. My gums protested. My throat gagged. And I realised: I had eaten a chilli.

My arm launched out to my glass of wine, and I swallowed its contents avidly. There was a moment of relief, as the wine passed my throat, but the anguish returned two seconds later. My head was filled with a brutal inferno. I tried to participate in my companions’ hilarity, but I could not. All my strength was focussed on the struggle against the chilli.

“Water, please!” I cried out. “I need water. I think I’ve eaten a chilli”.

And they all laughed. Sergi got up and walked too slowly to the fridge. He brought back a bottle of Cistercian Organic Spring Water which was half empty. I snatched the bottle and in five seconds had drunk it all, alleviating the burning for a moment. I needed more. Without more water I would become another absurd death: I would never escape this inferno. Gesticulating, I ran to the kitchen sink and put my head under the tap. I stayed there for five minutes, swallowing water, coming up for air, going down again to swallow more.

My friends shifted from laughter to a more uncertain state, not knowing how to react. Alex made a couple of jokes, Sonia gave some bits of useless medical advice. And Sergi, as the host, looked at me with an apologetic face, not knowing whether to joke or talk about something else to alleviate the situation.

I had swallowed at least three litres of water. The pain was receding from my mouth, and I felt a moment of calm. I smiled weakly at my friends, assuring them that it was nothing - but almost at the moment of saying so, a sharp pain gripped my stomach, as if my insides were being clenched in a vice. A ferocious wave of nausea ran through the centre of my body.

And in a short space of time I lost all feeling. I entered into a surreal universe in which the fragmented voices of my friends mixed with throbbing, oscillating colours, in dark, translucid shapes. As in a dream, familiar but distorted people appeared before me, eating ants. The vision of an enormous goat filled my mind, its eyes protuberant, a red-brown sauce dripping from its horns. I looked with horror as the goat vomited a gigantic deformation, which I slowly recognised to have all the characteristics of a chilli.

I do not know how long I stayed in that state – minutes, hours, days. Finally I returned to consciousness.

“Can you hear me?” I heard Sergi say. His face appeared above me with blinking goat-like eyes.
“Yes...I can hear you”, I answered him with difficulty.

 “Have some more water” – and he put a glass to my lips.

As I drank the water I suffered another fierce reaction. With the little strength that remained in me, I got up and ran to the bathroom, where I put my head into the toilet to expel the contents of my stomach. It was a brutal, wrenching evacuation.

I lay against the wall and looked at the mirror which hung opposite, reflecting a line of shampoo bottles. The cavern of my mouth tasted of vomit. I was exhausted, drained of life. Nonetheless, I could vaguely see the end of my agony: the chilli had been expelled from my system. I would survive. I would live to enjoy other dinners, other moments of laughter, elation, and nausea.

After a few minutes, I had recovered sufficiently to come out of the bathroom. My friends had the faces of witnesses to a dreadful car accident. Alex looked at me uncomfortably. Sonia mumbled some more medical stuff. But it was Sergi who seemed most perturbed by the event. His expression was a mixture of: anguish, empathy, shame, perplexity, revulsion and defeat – the defeat which only a failed cook can truly understand.

It was, as I say, a memorable evening. We returned afterwards to a certain calm, ending the dinner with a game of Monopoly (Alex won, cheating). The apple tart – according to Sonia afterwards – was quite good, and the Swiss chocolates were, by common consent , stupendous. Sergi bid me goodbye with an embrace and an awkward apology.

That was the last time Sergi invited me to dinner. We are good friends still - but as the saying goes, a constant guest is never welcome. And as the other saying goes, one man’s goat’s head soup is another man’s expectoration.

 

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Paint It Black by Lucy Alton