Stories and poems: an index to my blogs

The following stories and poems are available to view. The "Shakespeare" stories are so named because they involve characters from Shakespeare's plays - although not as imagined by Shakespeare!


Fictional Stories

100 Words for Christmas
A Bigger Bat
A Double Proposal
A Good Disco
A Journey to the Past
A Nip of Firewater
A Piece of Cake
A Winter's Tale
An Artist's Impression
Another Dimension
Apologies for Spillages
Contracting a Kidnap
Cruises Can Be Costly
Dreaming David
Fighting Back
Half a Lifetime
How Mark Became an Apostle
Hunting the Cobra-Preta
Identifying a Flying Object
In the Library
Last Day of the Month in Nohopia
Lucy in the Library
Maybe Not
Mother Was
My Acceptance Speech
My Hero
My Journey to Burnside Farm
Not Invited
Old Habits
One Too Many
Out of the Shadows
Over The Wall
Red Stains as the Sun Sets
Resolution
Send in the Clones
Single-sentence Stories
Something Raymond Forgets
Suitable Names
Terror Can Taste So Very Sweet
The Brothers
The Burnt Babe and Black Arthur
The Case of the Missing Doughnut
The Closure of Jimmy McTavish
The Old Man and the Mountain
The Racing Puzzlers
The Tailor of Horsemarket
The Three Bears
The True Story of the Gunpowder Plot (Maybe!)
The Waiter's Tale
Three Policemen Bitten
Trust Means Everything
Try Again, Ollie
Volunteering the Dark
Where Streams of Living Water Flow
Your Wish Is ...


Shakespeare Stories

28 Pounds
A Bad Spell
A Happy Tale's Best for Summer
A Rose By Any Other Name
A Useless Organiser
Away With the Fairies
Enter Mrs Macbeth
Fairies Versus Witches
Getting Out
Ghost Swap
Immediate Response
Juliet: Hatched, Matched, Despatched
Lady Macbeth Does a Deal
Line 42
Meeting of the Brotherhood
Moving On
Mr Jakes
Mr Shylock of Little Venice
New Beginnings
Only in America
Prince Hamlet, Dimly Lit
Pursued by a Bear
Rising to the Challenge
Royal Conference
Seeing Red
Shakespeare 400 Years On
Survival at Stratford
The Doctor Looked At Me
The Glorious Twelfth
The Island
The Lear Family's Resolutions
The MasterChef Witches
The School for Scoundrels
Things That Bounce
Trick or Treat?
Valentine's Day at the Macbeths


True stories

A Helpful Person
A Lengthy Lunch in Moscow
Brake Failure
Clean Up
D-A-M
First Day At School
Flying to Moscow
Guarding the Castle
I Looked Over the Edge and Gasped
Library Rescue
Love is a Roast Potato
Nautical Rainbows From a Long Time Ago
Opportunities
Protecting the Princess
Put That Light Out
Random Meetings
Remember, Remember
RIP: A Funeral and an Ankle
Serious Injury to a Soldier
Taxed to the Hilt
The Parting of the Ways
The Tale of Dr Todd
What's In A Name?
Your Next Station Stop

Poems

A Poem About Cheese
Break
Clerihews
Cloudy Dreams
Familiar Figure
Forget the Fish
Haikus and Tankas
Kitchen Sink Thoughts
Poet's Block
Repeating the Past
The Darkest Hour
The Hottest Day
The Pockets of Power
Time: a quad poem
Tornado Twists and Shouts: a poem with introduction
Vote For Me
You Know You're Getting Older When ...


Other Pieces

A Walk on the Beach
Coffin Humour
Deadlines
Divided by a Common Language
Invented Saints
Partner Piece
The Reduced Canterbury Tales: Prologue to the Wife of Bath's Tale
The Reduced Canterbury Tales: Friar's Tale to Franklin's Tale
The Reduced Canterbury Tales: Physician's Tale to Tale of Melibee
The Reduced Canterbury Tales: Monk's Tale to Parson's Tale

Things That Bounce: a story

Ophelia’s knock at the door of Blasted Heath Cottage was answered by Doris, one of the three haggard old crones who had a reputation in those parts for preparing strange concoctions in their cauldron and issuing misleading advice to passers-by.

“Do come in”, said Doris. “We’ve just made up a new brew in the cauldron and we’d love you to sample it, just to see what effect it has”.

Ophelia gladly accepted the first invitation, but declined the second.

“What can we do for you?” asked Mabel who, if anything, was even more gaunt and haggard than Doris. “As you know, our advice can always be trusted. We always speak at least one version of the truth, although not necessarily the one that will do you most good.”

“That’s a chance I’ll have to take”, said Ophelia, “but it’s not really advice I’m after”.

“What is it then?” said the third crone, Alice, who was just visible through the smoke from the cauldron. “You don’t want our advice and refuse to sample our new potion, but you must want something? Old bitches like us don’t feature very highly on most people’s lists of folks to drop by on for a jolly little chat.”

“I want an idea,” said Ophelia. “I’m going round everyone I know because Hamlet has started a new writing group at Elsinore Castle - it meets in the library every Friday morning – and he’s set us a challenge that has left me baffled.”

“In what way?” asked Doris.

“The theme he’s set is ‘Things That Bounce’, and I really don’t know what he’s on about.”

“Balls”, said Alice.

“There’s no need to be rude”, said Ophelia. “I only asked.”

“Balls bounce”, said Alice. “Tennis balls, basketballs, footballs …”

“Table tennis balls, volleyballs, even cricket balls”, Mabel added. “They all bounce.”

“I know”, said Ophelia, “but that all sounds a bit too obvious, and I’m not sure that I could write a decent story about table tennis balls or any other sort. That’s why I’m looking for suggestions for other things that bounce.”

“Fortunes”, said Doris. “They can go both up and down. Lots of people have suffered loss of fortune and bounced back up again.”

“And how many people do we know to whom that’s happened?” Ophelia asked. “Shylock pointed out to me that his fortune went in two directions, but after it went down it hardly bounced back up again.”

“Reputations”, said Mabel. “They can bounce”.

“Same problem”, said Ophelia. “You should hear Othello go on about reputation – you can’t stop him. But once his went through the floor there was no upward bounce. All the “reputable” characters in his play ended up dead.”

“So who else have you spoken to?” asked Doris. “Surely someone must have an idea about what can bounce?”

“Well, I did have word with Falstaff”, said Ophelia. “He thought I’d said ‘Thugs That Bounce’ and went on for hours about all the gorillas that have ejected him from every club and pub in Windsor, London and just about everywhere else. He’s far more deserving of the title “The Barred” than our beloved creator.”

“I’ve got an idea”, said Alice, who was quietly stirring the cauldron. “You see this alphabetti spaghetti? Just pick out all the letters you need for ‘Things That Bounce’ and drop them into the cauldron”.

This puzzled Ophelia, but she did as she was asked and selected the sixteen letters that made up the words of the title. She dropped them into the steaming mess of the cauldron and was surprised to see that they did not immediately dissolve. Alice moved her hands across the surface and muttered an incantation. The letters promptly disappeared downwards.

“What’s happening?” asked Ophelia. “How does this help?”

“Don’t worry”, said Alice. “I may be a bitch but you can trust my magic. I’ve put an anagram spell on the letters. They’ll bounce off the bottom of the cauldron and re-appear in a different order. Just wait and see.”

Sure enough, a few seconds later the letters came back into view, but this time they spelled out the words ‘Gaunt Honest Bitch’.

“That’s me”, said Alice. “That should give you an idea for your story.”

“Thank you”, said Ophelia, “I think it has!”

© John Welford

Cloudy Dreams: a poem

Dreamer, what are your dreams?

Is your brain frozen cold in a cloud?

Is reality less than it seems?

Are your visions silent or loud?

Cumulus, cumulo, cumular

Banality, fluffy and white.

Do you dream of a faraway star?

Is your day exploding at night?

Can stratus level the mind,

Greyness obscuring all thought?

The dream has nothing to find

Some fish can never be caught.

Fly high, your Cirrean dream,

Your castle founded on air

A non-understandable theme,

Hopes and ambitions laid bare.

Dream of nimbucular rain

Torrents of darkness and fear

Anticipation of pain

Only waking can make disappear.

Dreams held fast within dreams

Clouds – grey, white and immense -

See there, as daylight first gleams,

The dreamer searching for sense.



© John Welford

Forget the Fish

The challenge was to write a piece that ended with the words: 'Forget the Fish. We need to leave. Now!'

This is my effort - not to be taken at all seriously!

Forget the Fish

I had a hope, when we started tonight,
That, just this once, we would get something right.
No dreadful mistakes, or terrible flaws
To stop us receiving tons of applause.
Our audience large, delighted and wowed
We’d earn loads of cash and make our mums proud.
We’d perform all our tricks, end with a song.
But – oh dear – it’s all gone horribly wrong.
Perhaps what first got us into this mess
Was when I tripped and caught hold of your dress.
As the darned thing ripped and fell to the floor
The women all screamed, the men shouted ‘More!’
I just hope they heard my shouted out pleas:
The programme did not include a striptease.
And was it really such a good plan
When sawing the girl to use a large can
Of highly authentic bright red fake blood?
A smear is OK, but that was a flood.
The blue lights outside were not a good sign –
At least five people had dialed 999.
The card tricks were dud – could I find the Jack?
I wish you’d told me I’d brought the wrong pack.
Tapped with my wand, pulled the hat from my head
How was I to know the rabbit was dead?
And as for the doves, why didn’t you say
When windows are open birds fly away?
Now we’re approaching the end of the show
Do we continue, I ask – yes or no?
I have to say I’m beginning to doubt
If I can pull off the juggling with trout.
We have to admit our act’s a disgrace
A ripe tomato just hit me full face.
There’s not much point in us taking a bow -
Best forget the fish. We need to leave. Now!


© John Welford

The Three Bears: a story

                                                  

‘The trouble with your porridge, Mummy Bear, is that you always serve it far too hot and the three of us have no alternative but to go for a walk in the woods until it cools down. Do you agree, Daddy Bear?’

‘I certainly do, son, and that always leaves open the possibility that we will forget to lock the door and some small golden-haired child will wander in and start sampling it.’

‘Any such golden-haired child will almost certainly want to sit in my chair and eat my porridge, Daddy Bear.’

‘Why’s that, son?’

‘Because your chair is too hard, Mummy’s is too soft, your porridge has too much salt in it, Mummy’s doesn’t have enough, and any small golden-haired child – should one by some chance happen to wander by – is much closer in age, size and inclinations to me – the child of this family – than to two hulking great adult bears.’

‘And what, my clever clogs of a son, do you think this golden-haired child will do once she has had her fill of your porridge?’

‘Well, if it was me I’d wander upstairs for a lie-down and discover that only one of the three available beds was to my liking.’

‘Any idea which that might be, as if I couldn’t guess?’

‘Well, mine of course. Not too hard, not too soft, just the right size.’

‘You could be right, son.’

‘And then no doubt she’d fall fast asleep and we’d discover her when we got home from our walk.’

‘It could just happen, son, which is why, every time we try this trick, we always forget to lock the front door. One day things might turn out just as you suggest.’

‘You mean you want us to find some golden-haired child in my bed after she’s broken my chair and eaten my porridge?’

‘We certainly do.’

‘But why?’

‘Tell me, son, do you really like porridge?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘And do you know why that is?’

‘I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’

‘It’s because, son, you’re a bear. It’s only in kiddies stories that bears eat soppy things like porridge. Bears much prefer to eat meat, ideally freshly torn from some creature that they’ve caught and ripped apart with their fearsome teeth and claws. It’s high time that you diversified your diet and started eating like the carnivore you really are.’

‘And you reckon that a small golden-haired child might be just the right size for a small bear like me to start on?’

‘Exactly son, you’ve got it in one. Now just get off that chair and join your mother and me for a walk in the woods. With any luck you might get something decent for breakfast when you get back.’

‘Thanks, Dad.’

© John Welford

First Day at School

There was no question about it – I was definitely not looking forward to my first day at Oakdale Junior School in September 1959. That was because of my last day at Stanley Green Infants the previous July.

In order to make the transition as painless as possible – that was the general idea – we were all ushered the short distance between the two schools so that we could spend the afternoon in the care of the teacher who would be looking after us when we returned after the Summer holidays.

Oakdale Junior was one of the largest primary schools in the Borough of Poole, taking about 150 new pupils every year, divided into four classes. These were rigidly streamed with promotions and demotions at the end of each term for those children who exceeded expectations or failed to reach the expected standard. An assessment had already been made at the infants’ school so the streaming came into play right from day one.

That meant that I was placed in Class 4, which was the A stream. The top two streams, in classes 3 and 4, were housed in a separate classroom block across a side road from the main school. It was to this block that my group of pupils was conducted on the afternoon in question.

I could never have imagined the shock that was going to befall me and the other children from Stanley Green. This had been a very progressive school for its time, housed in a building that was only about five years old when I joined the school in 1957. Every classroom was light and airy, with a door leading to a garden area in which lessons were sometimes conducted on fine days in Spring and Summer. Learning through play was a strong element and there were no teachers to whom one could not take an instant liking.

However, the teacher who greeted us in Class 4 at Oakdale Junior was far from likeable. This was Mrs Barnett, who was not only considerably older than most of the teachers at Stanley Green but had also come from a very old-fashioned tradition of teaching in which strict discipline was the top priority. She made it clear at the outset that our job was to attend to her every word and not let our attention flag for an instant. She ordered us to our places – each child at a desk in a row instead of the groups at tables that we had been used to – and told to look directly at her and not even think of talking to anyone else.

Not unnaturally, some of the children wanted to take a look at their new surroundings and pass the odd comment to a neighbour. When Mrs Barnett caught a child doing this she pounced on them, dragged them to the front of the room and whacked them three or four times on the back of the leg with a ruler. This happened several times during the afternoon, either for inattention or failing to answer a question correctly – which was usually because Mrs Barnett assumed that our Stanley Green teachers would already have drilled us in pieces of knowledge that they clearly did not think we were ready to learn.

So that was why I spent a terrible Summer holiday absolutely dreading my first day at Oakdale Junior School. I’m sure that I was not alone in this among the future members of Class 4.

My mother dropped me off at the school on my first morning, but she did not know about the separate classroom block and I was left on the other side of the main school building. I therefore had to ask the crossing warden, who controlled the traffic lights at the busy road junction outside the front of the school, where I had to go. She told me to go through a gate in a high fence, which I duly did, only to find myself in a playground thronging with kids – boys only - from all the years in the school.

A whistle blew and the children were instructed to form up in lines according to the class they now belonged to for the new school year. I joined one of these lines, hoping it was the right one, and followed the instruction to stand to attention then turn left and march off through the cloakroom and into the long corridor off which all the classrooms led. I simply followed the leader and found myself in a classroom that was nothing like the one I remembered from July. We were soon joined by the girls, who had been marched down from the other end of the corridor.

A roll was taken, but my name was not on the register so I could not answer “present” as every other child was able to do. I just sat there, feeling very confused and wondering when Mrs Barnett would show up, because the teacher in front of me was certainly not the harridan I was dreading to meet again.

A few minutes later Mr Knight, the deputy headmaster, came in and asked if there was a John Welford in the room, which there certainly was. He told me that I had placed myself in the C stream and needed to follow him to where I should have been. “Here we go”, I thought. “I wonder what sort of mood Mrs Barnett will be in”.

I was duly taken across the side road and into the correct classroom – Mrs Barnett’s lair.

But Mrs Barnett was not there. Instead, there was a very pleasant young lady called Miss Robinson who welcomed me with a smile and showed me where to sit. She turned out to be an excellent teacher who treated children in a far more civilized way than Mrs Barnett had done and never used any form of corporal punishment on a child, not that she was ever placed in a position where this might have been a possibility.

It turned out that our afternoon with Mrs Barnett had been the final few hours of the latter’s career before her retirement. Why she had decided to end her days as a teacher by whacking as many children as she could is anyone’s guess, but we were all mighty glad that the school had chosen a replacement who was far more deserving to be termed a teacher.

© John Welford

28 pounds: a story

The judge who heard the case of Shylock’s bankruptcy had no objection to accepting the latter’s invitation to dinner a month or so after the proceedings had concluded. It would have seemed to the casual observer that the learned gentleman was frequently persuaded to partake in any activity that involved large quantities of free food, given the extent of his waistline. Any bench on which m’lord sat to give judgment would doubtless have had to be strongly reinforced to prevent scenes of embarrassment should his vast bulk have led to a disastrous collapse.

“So, Mr Shylock”, said the judge as he wiped his mouth after his third extra helping of sticky toffee pudding, “how have you been getting on lately? Any ideas for future income generation?

“Well”, said Shylock, “It’s funny you should mention that, Judge. I have already started a venture that takes my previous business model a stage further.”

“All legal and above board, I trust?” asked the judge.

“But of course”, said Shylock. “How could you possibly think otherwise?

“I can’t imagine”, said the judge.

Shylock proceeded to enlighten the judge.

“If you recall”, he said, “I was formerly in the moneylending trade, and I had an interesting method of persuading people to pay up on time. This involved the extraction of one pound of flesh, from whichever part of their body I decided on at the time.”

“How could I ever forget?” said the judge. “I seem to remember that this was the start of the slippery slope as far as you were concerned, leading to the sorry financial state that brought you to my court.”

“Indeed so”, said Shylock. “But it was also what gave me the idea for starting afresh.”

“You intrigue me”, said the judge. “I don’t see how mutilating people’s bodies and possibly causing them to bleed to death could ever be regarded as both profitable and legal.”

“I assume”, said Shylock as he viewed the vast bulk of the man sitting opposite him, “that you have not given weight loss much active thought of late?”

The judge looked offended. “Are you saying I’m fat?” he asked.

“Well,” said Shylock, “if you were to lose just a little bit of weight you might find it easier to perform certain actions – getting through doorways for example”.

“You might have a point”, the judge conceded. “But I do love my food and I’d hate to be forced to eat nothing but lettuce and vitamin pills”.

“But that’s why my scheme is so brilliant”, said Shylock. “You lose the weight but go on eating just as much as you want. When you think you’ve returned to where you were before, you come back to me and we start all over again.”

“So what do you do?” asked the judge.

“It’s called liposuction,” said Shylock. “I don’t just remove one pound of unsightly fat, I use my recently acquired surgical skills to suck out as many pounds as you want. Under anaesthetic, of course – I’ve learned my lesson as far as that’s concerned”.

“I’m intrigued”, said the judge. “I reckon I could lose a couple of stone quite happily. And you say it’s completely painless?”

“That depends on which package you decide to purchase”, said Shylock. “Some of my patients who have gone for the cheaper options have reported feeling just a modicum of unbearable agony during the procedure.”

“Well in that case put me down for the top of the range option”, said the judge. “What will the cost be, anyway?”

“For 28 pounds?” said Shylock. “Including the anaesthetic, that will come, coincidentally, to just £28”.

“That’s amazing”, said the judge, “where do I sign?”

“Right here”, said Shylock, who whipped out the contract that he had already prepared in the firm expectation of just such an outcome.

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

A few weeks later the judge and Shylock met again, once the liposuction had taken place to the immense satisfaction of the former, although – if truth be told – the loss of a mere 28 pounds to his waistline did not make a huge amount of difference to the casual observer of before and after.

“Have you come to pay your bill?” asked Shylock.

“I certainly have”, said the judge as he wrote his cheque. “Pay Mr Shylock the sum of 28 pounds sterling … ”

“Oh dear”, said Shylock, “I don’t think you can have read the small print on the contract. I never said that the whole operation would be performed for £28 in total”.

“That’s true”, said the judge. “You must have meant £28 per pound. That’s much more reasonable from your point of view. I think that comes to £784, so I’ll just make out another cheque.”

“Oh dear again”, said Shylock. “You clearly missed the even smaller print. Although we work in pounds when calculating the amount of fat to be removed, as far as payment terms are concerned we’ve gone metric – it’s amazing how many people don’t realise that. It’s not £28 pounds per pound – it’s £28 per gram. And I’ve reversed my old ‘pound of flesh’ threat – if people don’t pay up I push the fat back in – and to any part of their anatomy that I see fit. It can produce some highly amusing results.

“£28 per gram?” said the ashen-faced judge. “But that will come to an enormous amount.”

“It certainly will”, said Shylock. “To be precise, and rounding down to the nearest pound sterling – I can be generous at times – the sum owed by you to me, with the full weight of contract law to back me up, is £355,616”.

© John Welford