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Dwynwen

West Coast Eisteddfod Short Story Competition 2014

Dwynwen

 

David Price was a loner. Ever since he could remember he had felt himself to be different    from the rest of the herd. That is not to say that he felt in any way superior to his contemporaries but only that he liked to go his own way and stand apart from those who preferred to indulge in more exuberant pursuits. He was more introspective than his colleagues and obtained his satisfaction from simple pleasures, taking his exercise through individual sports rather than team games.

 

He grew up in a small town in the heart of the country, far from the grimey industrial cities where his parents had lived throughout the war. He had a fairly normal childhood except that he was an only child and sought companionship with neighbours and the few real friends he made at school. He was an avid reader and excelled in literature and the arts and succeeded in being admitted to university college where he eventually received a degree in architecture.

 

Later he moved to Cardiff where he found a apartment to rent overlooking a park near the centre. In mid-January, on one of his customary visits to the library where he regularly logged on to the internet to search various avenues for employment his eye was caught by a comely dark-haired woman dressed  simply but elegantly who occupied the seat across the table. She was casually leafing through a fashion magazine, occasionally glancing up at the clock on the wall. Then she stood up, propped the magazine on the rack from whence it came and stepped into the elevator. As the doors closed and before she disappeared from view it seemed to David that she flashed a brief smile in his direction.

 

A week later David was on his way to the library and as he approached the main door of the building he observed a slightly familiar figure ahead of him. He quickened his footsteps and  caught the door as it swung back behind her. She stood in front of the elevator as he pushed the red button and they waited as the lift whirred towards them. The doors opened and they both stepped in and David breathed in the fragrant aroma of her perfume as she stood demurely at his side.

 

Without speaking they reached the second floor and emerged into the hushed silence if the spacious room, the rows of computers to the right and to the left the tables where newspapers and  a few magazines lay in desultory abandon. David made his way purposefully to the computer section while his intriguing acquaintance scanned the magazine racks. Having selected a magazine of her choice she settled down and was soon engrossed in an article on love-spoons. She was particularly interested in this topic as her name was Dwynwen, the Welsh equivalent to St. Valentine.

 

Love-spoons happen to be a traditional Welsh gift which a girl's suitor would lovingly carve from a branch of ash or sycamore wood and fashion into an intricate object resembling a spoon, the handle of which is carved into a unique pattern and sometimes included the lovers' initials or a monogram. These spoons would be presented to the object of desire as an offering and statement of the feelings which the youth would have for his chosen bride. Dwynwen was jolted from her musings by the vibrant and familiar sound of her mobile phone which she had forgotten to switch off on entering the library. She fumbled in her bag and hurried out of the building, this time using the stairs to descend to the ground floor.

David watched her rapid exit and waited a while but she did not return. He quickly attended to a couple of email messages, then moved towards the escalator. As he passed the table he glanced down and saw the magazine open at the page which Dwynwen had been reading. He sat down and as he did so he noticed a business card lying by her chair on the floor. On it was printed: Dwynwen Griffiths – Property Consultant and gave her phone number. He slipped it into his pocket and read the magazine feature for himself, and as he did so an idea began to germinate in his mind. 

 

A week passed and being a creature of habit she duly arrived at the library on the same day that David made his weekly appearance. This time he approached her and produced the business card saying: “Is this yours? I found it here on the floor after you left last week.” She turned her dark eyes towards him and replied: “Oh did you? But there was really no need to go to the trouble of returning it!”

“I was intrigued by your name,” David murmured. “Would you like to tell me about it? It's quite unusual.”

“We can't talk here,”Dwynwen said,”let's go and have a coffee and I'll tell you how I got it.”

 

Over coffee she explained that Dwynwen was a Welsh princess of the 5^th Century A.D., the daughter of a king, Brychan Brycheiniog from whom the town of Brecon was named.

Dwynwen  had been in love with a nobleman named Maelon but the king had prevented the affair from flourishing by having Maelon turned into a block of ice. Dwynwen became a nun and developed a guide for lovers. Her day, January 25^th, became St. Dwynwen's Day and was celebrated by Welsh lovers from then on. Later people across the world began to observe a different day, 14^th February as the day when lovers exchange gifts and proclaim their undying devotion,  but St Dwynwen's Day remained in Welsh folk tradition to this day. Their conversation turned to other folk traditions and David suggested that they meet next Saturday at the Welsh folk museum at St Ffagan's which surprisingly he had never visited. She readily agreed and they went their separate ways.

 

That afternoon he made a trip into the countryside and cut a short branch from a sycamore tree. That night he started whittling away at this piece of wood and continued working at it for the next few nights. By the end of the week he had created an exquisite love-spoon which he polished with beeswax until it glowed with a satin sheen. He wrapped it in tissue paper and placed it in a small box with an intention of giving it to the woman of his dreams.

 

The following Saturday it was cold but sunny. Arriving at St Ffagan's at the appointed time he saw her, standing beneath a sign that read: AMGUEDDFA WERIN CYMRU. He realised how much he liked her. She was not at all skittish like many of the girls he had known. She was wrapped up in a warm woollen coat, wearing black leather gloves, a black beret  and sporting a tartan scarf draped loosely around her neck. She turned and smiled as he approached and unselfconsciously slipped her hand beneath his arm, and they proceeded through the museum gazing at the traditional houses, tools and artifacts from a previous age, long gone. Later they entered the warmth of an onsite restaurant and sat near a blazing fire. David took out the box from beneath his coat and laid it on the table. “it's for you,” he said, “ and I'm sorry that I missed your day, the 25^th of January, but today is Valentine's Day and you are my Valentine.” Slowly she opened the box, unwrapped the tissue paper to reveal his handiwork, smiled in total acquiescence, leaned over the table to plant a kiss on his fore-head, and thus heralded the start of a long and happy relationship that persists to this day.

updated by @alan-stafford-jones: 02/13/16 12:49:51AM

A Galactic Adventure

West Coast Eisteddfod Short Story Competition 2014

A Galactic Adventure

 

Preparations were well on the way for the mission to explore the distant galaxy now known as the Milky Way. It was thought that life forms may exist in other reaches of the cosmos and logically as well as statistically there was a distinct possibility that life might be found on other planets in other galaxies apart from Andromeda.

 

The exhaustive tests had proved successful and the space-craft was sitting on the launch-pad awaiting final preparations and the signal to be given for take-off. It was built to the latest design and  its technology was state-of-the art. Its outer skin shimmered in the light of the star which illuminated the only planet in this solar system which provided the perfect condition for life to flourish. The inhabitants were highly advanced and industrious, and society was well-ordered and harmonious. There was no conflict between good and evil, right and wrong, rich and poor. Everyone was equal and well-contented and peace and harmony reigned.

 

The time arrived for departure and the two individuals clad in space-suits and helmets climbed the ladder and entered the space-craft. The man sat down at the controls, performed the necessary arrangements for take-off, switched on the anti-gravitational system and the craft slowly rose up into the sky. It soon left behind the atmosphere which enveloped the planet like a life-giving blanket and soundlessly entered the immensity of space.

 

The woman busied herself with the routine operations of the flight, plotting the route and the position of black holes which must be avoided unless they should be sucked into  a whirling abyss and transformed into anti-matter in the blink of an eye. The cosmonauts entertained themselves by playing computer games and relaying their observations to mission control. After what seems to be an eternity the craft entered the outer fringes of the solar system which was their destination, heading towards the centre where lay a particular planet which appeared to manifest the potential for life .

 

The cosmonauts took great care in negotiating a passage through the asteroid belt and very soon approached the beautiful blue-green planet which was their goal. Slowly they descended to the earth and gently landed in a spacious clearing. Cautiously they ventured outside, climbed down to the ground and tested the chemical content of the air.

The man smiled and turned to his companion. “We have no need of these suits and our breathing apparatus,” he exclaimed. “We can breathe the air!” The quickly discarded their suits and returned them to the cabin, then gazed at the pristine landscape with its trees laden with fruit, its lush vegetation and verdant pastures. Brightly coloured birds and butterflies flew around them and small animals scurried beneath their feet.

 

  “What a wonderful world!” the woman said and the man nodded in agreement. They walked naked, hand in hand, away from the craft and towards the sound of rushing water. It was a waterfall tumbling down into a sizable pool with crystal-clear water reflecting the blue sky above. The woman cupped her hands and scooped up some water to drink. “Try it,  she said, “it tastes good!” The man did the same and then plunged into the water, the woman following with little squeals of delight. Later they lay down in the sun to dry on the soft lush grass of the meadow. “I could stay here forever!” the woman cried.

 

It was time for the two of them to leave. Somewhat reluctantly they climbed into their spacecraft and donned their suits to set out on their long journey home. The man sat at the controls but soon discovered to his consternation that the anti-gravitational system could not be activated. The message on the screen read: Fatal Error – system closing down. Adam turned to Eva and said, “We cannot perform the take off. We are here forever!” Eva put her arms around him. “Don't worry Adam” she said, “It's a strange and lovely planet and at least we have each other”.  She skipped down the ladder, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Alan S. Jones

updated by @alan-stafford-jones: 02/13/16 12:48:49AM

A Ghost Story from Cornwall

West Coast Eisteddfod Short Story Competition 2014

A Ghost Story

 

Tom Williamson is a teacher and a writer and lives in a quaint seafront cottage in a coastal town in the West Country. He had bought the cottage in the Seventies just before the prices had escalated and then struggled to pay the monthly mortgage which had risen to 15 % p.a., but fortunately he had managed to put down a large deposit, having saved much of his teacher's salary during his first ten years at the local primary school. He considered himself to be fortunate in having courted and later married a girl who was not at all extravagant or ostentatious and who had developed the art of frugality in the home without apparently suffering from any feeling of deprivation. Her name was Karenza Hosking. She had a trusty sewing machine which her mother had passed on to her and made her own clothes and even shirts for Tom which he proudly wore to work. Karenza was sensible, even-tempered and industrious and kept the house clean and welcoming. She was a good cook and produced tasty meals which Tom enjoyed on his return from a tiring day at school.

Tom had submitted a number of short stories to a number of publishers without success but one Spring day he returned home to find an envelope awaiting him with a logo of a well-known publishing company on the front. Sensing that it might contain a further rejection he casually tore it open and proceeded to read the contents with little anticipation. A slow smile spread across his face as he read on and Karenza looked at him expectantly. “Anything interesting? “ she questioned, and Tom replied: “Well, it seems that they were interested in the last story I submitted and they want me to develop it further and produce a ghost story which they will consider publishing in an anthology.” “Well, it's good that you have the Easter holiday coming up so you will have some time to work on it,” said Karenza, her eyes shining with pleasure. She put her arms around his neck and  kissed him. “This may be the break-through you have been waiting for,” she exclaimed.

The Spring Term came to an end and Tom would descend the flights of steep steps  to the harbour side and stroll along the pier where the fishing boats were moored after disembarking their early morning catch. Ideas began to form in  his mind as he envisaged the scene as it would have been a couple of centuries before. How would it have appeared in 1812 he thought? – it was the year of the retreat from Moscow, leading to the the final defeat of the French army and their mercenaries under the iron rule of Napoleon Buonaparte. So that was it...a historical ghost story set in a West Country town, when smuggling was rife and cases of brandy and tobacco were spirited into the country under cover of darkness. The scene before him faded as he sat on the harbour wall and in its place appeared a strangely evocative and antiquated picture of red-sailed fishing smacks, women in shawls, bonnets tied at the chin and long voluminous skirts picking out the fish they would cook for dinner while their menfolk squatted on the ground mending nets and exchanging ribald jokes with their companions.

It was approaching lunch-time and Tom traced his way back up the hill to his white-washed former fisherman's cottage which overlooked the busy harbour. His wife was sitting in the spare room designing a blouse for her sister-in law, to give her for her birthday. “Your lunch is on the table,” she called, as Tom closed the door behind him. He quickly ate his lunch and mounted the stairs to the second bedroom which acted as a study. He walked over to the window, surveyed the scene below as the seagulls wheeled and careened around the chimney-tops, and then he settled down to work on his story. His mind recalled a distant age, an age of war and tumult, death and destruction and the dawning of an Empire which had now disappeared, apart from a huge Rock and a few scattered islands. Even little Cornwall was urging for a return of the Stannery Parliament, the revival of the language and greater autonomy from Westminster. The black flag with its white cross was once more to be seen fluttering in the breeze across the countryside from Gunnislake to Penwith.

Luke Bolitho was a sturdy Cornishman who had had the misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. His wife had sent him to Falmouth to buy some provisions for the house. She needed yarn to knit the warm woolen jumpers that she spent her evenings knitting for the fisher-folk who often paid her in kind, a leg of mutton, a woven basket,  a pair of boots  or a new bonnet. Luke had a few pennies left over from his purchases and made his way to one of the many public houses which lined the harbour. A group of young women dallied outside wearing bright dresses and gaudy make-up and they shot sidelong glanced at Luke  as he approached, but his throat was dry and he badly needed to slake his thirst. As he pushed open the door he heard raucous sounds and raised voices and observed a couple of drunkards at the bar exchanging insults, but he ignored them and ordered a pint of his favourite ale known as Blue Anchor. He spoke a few words to the barman who muttered in lowered tones “Watch out for yisself when you be leavin'.. The navy's in port!” After a hour Luke left the pub and prepared to make his way back home.

The next thing he knew was that he was being dragged into an alleyway and accosted by rough hands. He struggled to get away but was knocked senseless by a blow on the head. When he finally regained consciousness he was on a ship bound for France.  A few soldiers were lounging around and upon spotting Luke one of them, a sergeant, came over to where he lay on the deck. “Here you!” he said, “ A gift from King George, lord bless him!” He thrust a shilling into Luke's hand.

News soon went around the neighbourhood that Luke was missing and his wife was distraught with worry. News filtered through of the distant war and the victory of the Duke of Wellington at Waterloo, and eventually men began returning home, many with grievous wounds from battle.

Luke's wife, Thomasina,  was at home in the front garden when a stranger who had returned from the wars swung open the gate, “Mistress Bolitho?” he called out. “I am the bearer of bad news I'm distressed to inform you. Your husband Luke was in my regiment at Verdun. He was hit by a French musket ball and passed away in my arms but before he died he asked me to find his wife and tell her the story of his decease.”

The poor woman was inconsolable, but the former soldier did his best to comfort her and she made up a bed for him in the parlour. The next day she made him breakfast and it was not long before he moved from the couch and into her bedroom. The neighbours soon came to accept the arrangement and the newcomer whose name was Daniel became a respected member of the community. He was a carpenter by trade and he soon began to make a reasonable living by creating articles of furniture as well as assisting with housing projects in the area.

 

Meanwhile faraway in France Luke was still very much alive. True, he had been badly wounded in the battle and had fainted for lack of blood but he had been found on the battlefield still breathing by French peasants who had carried him gently to a barn and laid him on a bed of straw while tending to his wounds. A local woman nursed him back to health and a local doctor called regularly to visit him until he was fit and well and able to take his leave. During his slow recovery he had picked up a smattering of French and this helped him to make his way to Le Havre where he took a sail boat across to Plymouth. As the boat departed from the harbour he thought back on the events which had brought him to that point in his life and he began to dream of his return to his old home town on the Cornish coast. He thought of his wife and how he had missed her starry gazy pies and pasties.

It was eventide and the boats were just leaving port to trawl for their nightly catch. The gaslamps were twinkling and the night watchman was setting off on his rounds. Mistress Bolitho was busy in the kitchen preparing supper and  a peat fire was burning in the grate. A young child, barely two years' old was playing with a wooden horse on the rug in front of the fire. Daniel was upstairs taking a nap after a long day's work. Candles placed on the table where supper was to be laid lit up the room casting shadows on the white stone walls. Outside the dogs were barking as if at the approach of hostile footsteps. A full moon lit up the cottages in a ghostly glow. Sudden gusts of wind rattled the doors and windows and the scent of wood-smoke penetrated the room. The door handle turned, the door creaked open and there, on the thresh-hold stood....”A ghost..a ghost...lord have mercy on us...!” Mistress Bolitho screamed, dropping the kettle on the floor and she promptly fainted.

Suddenly the room was full of people as neighbours rushed in to see what on earth was going on.

“A ghost...a ghost...” people shouted, as Luke stood there with an expression of utter bewilderment.

Tom Williamson put down his pen and called down to his wife, Karenza. “I finished my story!” “The kettle's on, “ she replied, “Come down and let's have tea.  I made scones and jam.”

Alan S. Jones

updated by @alan-stafford-jones: 02/13/16 12:47:51AM

The End of the World

West Coast Eisteddfod Short Story Competition 2014

The End of the World

 

Sixty-seven million years ago the world came to an end, or very nearly.  A gigantic meteor six miles across came hurtling from the depths of space, from the asteroid belt, which lies between Mars and Jupiter, and crashed into the Earth , where the present Yucatan peninsular of Mexico  juts out into  the Caribbean. The result of this calamity was the demise of the dinosaurs which had ruled the world for millions of years.  The huge dust-cloud which enveloped the earth blotted out the sun and  suffocated  the creatures that roamed the earth, and deprived the remaining animals of  food  and water.

 

Could a similar catastrophic event be repeated? Scientists and astronomers are always on the alert, plotting the course of maverick rocks which litter space and which have a trajectory which attracts them towards the gravitational pull of Earth. Yet natural disasters on such a scale occur infrequently and mankind has entered the race towards Armageddon through the invention of devastating forms of weaponry, through mindless contamination of the planet and through exploitation of the world's resources. Sightings have occurred of strange unearthly objects and reports have been published by trusted and respected individuals of large cigar-shaped vessels in the sky which spawn saucer-shaped craft which swoop and hover soundlessly and cause electrical disturbances giving rise to graphic accounts in the media and subsequent denials by the authorities. Are they a warning to mankind to halt the headlong race towards oblivion? Warnings have been made by prophetic individuals from the past, from the biblical book of Ezekiel to the quatrains of Nostradamos, but it is the prophecies of the Mayans which currently occupy the minds of literate folk around the world. The Mayan, Toltec, Aztec  and Inca civilisation were the four great empires which rose and fell in the Americas culminating in the final coup de grace delivered by the Spanish conquistadores. These civilisations were afflicted by climate change, internecine feuds among the tribes and by the brutal and rapacious invasions from across the Atlantic. The indigenous natives in their thousands were massacred, and proved to be no match for the military technology of the conquerors. The Mayan Calendar comes to an end in the year 2012 and the date of the final countdown is December 21^st.

 

Throughout 2012 people around the world began making preparations and to face the prospect of an imminent end. There had been a number of warnings that the earth had entered a period of severe disturbance and turbulence. There had been a devastating earthquake beneath the Pacific Ocean that had instigated tsunamis which had resulted in the deaths of tens of thousands of people in Sri Lanka, Indonesia and Thailand. There had been earthquakes in New Zealand, Turkey and Spain and volcanic eruptions in Indonesia, the Philippines, Italy and Mexico. There had been a big increase in solar activity causing magnetic disturbances and manifestations of the aurora borealis. There had been global warming, melting of glaciers and polar ice and freak weather conditions such as the floods in Australia, blizzards in eastern Europe and drought in India and north America.  On top of all this came a global recession which deepened and spread economic ruin. This was caused by several factors, a banking crisis, a housing crash in the over-valued property market as prices tumbled and by the profligate ways of governments which believed  in spending as if there was no tomorrow. Increasingly it appeared that after 21^st December there really would be no tomorrow.

Globalisation of trade and faith in the value of paper currency rather than real assets had  resulted in the western economies being stacked up like a row of dominoes so that when one collapsed it set off another and another, first Greece, then Portugal, then Ireland, then Spain, then Italy until even France was under threat. It seemed like the end of a golden age. The euphoria of the Sixties and Seventies when people were actively questioning the purpose of life and seeking spiritual wisdom and self-realisation had faded away, the flowing shoulder-length hair and beads had given way to military style haircuts, shaven heads, tattoos and body piercings, sure signs of the changing mentality in society. Was the world going completely mad, and did any hope exist for future generations?

 

 

The media was rife with speculation about the manner and form of the impending apocalypse. Would it take the form of a direct hit from an asteroid as before, or would it be an internal convulsion signalled by earthquakes and volcanic eruptions. Would alien spacecraft be on hand to rescue a chosen few for the purpose of breeding and colonising another suitable planet? Would the world end in a devastating all-consuming fire or another Great Flood? Would the world end with a bang or a whimper? Fervent believers began to pack the churches as had never been seen since the 1950's. Moslems threw up their hands and said it was the will of Allah and nothing could be done. Various religious groups talked of climbing a mountain to sit it out, as members of the Aetherius Society had done in the late Sixties. Revellers and hedonists vowed to live their last weeks and days to the full, throwing lavish parties and engaging in all kinds of decadent activities. Books by George Orwell, H.G. Wells and Aldous Huxley were printed and sold in their thousands. The recent recession and the economic melt-down faded into insignificance in the face of an even greater threat.... a threat which imperilled life itself.  Palmists, Tarot Card readers and fortune-tellers had a field day but they did nothing to alleviate the fear and trepidation which was tangible in society. It was said that a third of the people on the planet should need to disappear before the earth could return to a stable equilibrium and sustainability. However, the likelihood of people agreeing a lemming-like pact to engage in self-destruction was extremely remote. The urge for self-preservation was too strong for that.

 

As autumn followed summer tensions in the world increased. The Palestinian question remained the top priority of governments, along with Afghanistan, which rapidly appeared to be disintegrating and ripe for a Taliban take-over. Iraq remained unstable and split by sectarian animosity. Iran still denied that it was engaged in a nuclear weapons programme. China was threatening to beat the capitalist western countries at their own game, while shielding its own inhabitants from the ideals of freedom and democracy much vaunted in America. Mankind was in great need of being brought to its senses, but a total annihilation of humanity was too dreadful to contemplate. People began to yearn for a saviour who would emerge to restore the world to peace and sanity.  By December the airwaves were buzzing as people got in touch with long-lost relatives, forgotten friends, and sought comfort from all manner of palliatives.

 

What were you doing when the world ended, you might ask? Well, I was living a quiet life in the Costa del Sol. The summer had been particularly hot and the beaches were thronged with tourists taking advantage of the long sunny days. Most people acted as if nothing was about to occur and generally ignored the scare-mongering stories in the press. True, there had been reports in the English papers of sightings of UFO's on the Costa, but it had hardly been a popular talking-point, and nothing to compare with the all-consuming obsession with football and beer. Life on the surface seemed to go on quite normally with very little real awareness of the bomb-shell which was destined to destroy the world as we know it forever. As December wore on people started preparing for Christmas, decorating their apartments and taking the children to meet the numerous Santa Clauses who were employed in the stores and commercial centres. However, this Christmas was destined to be a Christmas like no other. “Are you staying up for the end of the world?” my children asked me as I picked them up in the car and drove them to my house for the regular weekend visit. “ I don't think so.” I replied, being a person of regular habits. “Let me know what has happened in the morning!”

 

And so it was. People around the world waited in anticipation of the great world-shaking event, scanning the skies and gluing themselves to the television, staggering out of the bars, dancing in the streets and falling in the fountains. But I went to bed early on the night of December 21^st, slept like a log and woke up to the sound of cocks crowing, heralding another new dawn for mankind. The sun rose in the east towards Malaga and another day dawned bright and clear........another day in Paradise.

Alan S. Jones

updated by @alan-stafford-jones: 02/13/16 12:46:50AM