As we are diverse like our DNA, 
Not everyone agrees with all we say. 
Though wishy washy won’t appeal to me 
There’s enough around say it’s poetry. 

There’s rhymes and verse but who’s the judge 
Of what’s poetic or what is sludge? 
I can’t say, being just a minion 
Or give weight to my opinion 
But to my meagre way of thought 
Though I’m oft accused of knowing nought 
Real poetry comes with rhymes or meter 
And even adds onomatopoeia. 

If I can allude to alliteration 
Then I’d be proud of my creation. 
Some might love it and give it five stars 
Many will scathe it and say it jars. 
‘Cus we are diverse like DNA 
You don’t have to agree; I’ve had my say.

A short story: The life-changing consequences of a Scrabble game!

If he were given the choice, Brian’s idea of a relaxing night at home in the company of friends would be to loaf in an armchair with a glass in his hand. Once again, with friends round, they were sat at the dining room table with a board game that was more suited to his wife’s intellect than his own. “That’s 3 for the B, 1 for R and 10 for the Z.” He declared as he sat back. A bright smile lit his face.

“Hang on, Brian, you’re not allowed Brazil. It’s a proper noun.” Sherri proclaimed with that ‘I’m a teacher of English which means, in word games, I’m always right’ tone in her voice.

“No, it’s not,” he argued, already sensing that once again, he was going to be defeated by the domineering party in his marriage. “What about Brazil nuts?”

“It’s still got a capital B,” Malcolm intervened. “That makes it a proper noun.” Malcolm and Brian had remained friends from their schooldays, but like Sherri, Malcolm had gone off to university and now they worked in the same English department at the local school. When it came to an argument, Malcolm invariably swapped between supporting his work colleague and then his friend.

 “Wait, though, Sherri.” Brian felt himself sigh as Anne began to speak. Malcolm’s wife was so quiet that it always seemed that she was seeking his permission before she uttered a word. Anne was well meaning but like Brian, always made to feel educationally inferior to their respective partners. Brian shook his head to no avail, as once again, Anne seemed determined to argue on his behalf. “If it is a proper noun, doesn’t that make it a proper word?”

“Oh no, no, no, dear Anne, it just gives it a capital letter.” Malcolm always spoke to Anne as though he was correcting a third former.

“Brian you can’t have it,” Sherri snapped. “Change your letters.”

In contrast, Anne’s voice was hardly more than a whisper, “Let him have it for goodness sake. We’ll be all night at this rate.”

“Anne, he’s my husband. I’ll decide what he can and can’t have, thank you.”

Malcolm patted Sherri’s hand, “It’s only a game, Sherri. Lighten up.”

“I’m just saying that he can’t have Brazil, that’s all.”

For some reason that, if asked, he would never be able to explain, that touch on his wife’s hand gave Brian an uneasy feeling, especially as it seemed that his old school friend was reluctant to let the hand go. “No you’re not,” he spoke slowly, sensing that his temper was rising. “You’ve just said you’ll decide what I can have. You’ll decide…”

“Oh for goodness sake, Brian. Do you think I haven’t noticed?”

“Noticed what?” Genuinely confused, Brian continued, “I’d better change my letters”

Sherri stood suddenly and scowled at her husband. “The way you look at Anne. I’m not naïve.”

“Sherri,” Malcolm was treating the episode as a humorous interlude and smiled inanely as he poured more wine into the four glasses, even for his wife, ignoring her protest. “Are you suggesting there is something going on between Anne and Brian? That is so unbelievably funny. Nobody would ever fancy Anne.”

“You know what I’m suggesting, Malcolm,” Sherri snarled. “Ask your wife. She can’t take her eyes off him.” Anne lowered her eyes and blushed scarlet. “God,” Sherri swayed, “She’s got guilt written all over her face.”

“I haven’t,” Anne whispered. “Brian, change your letters, please.”

Brian reached for Sherri’s hand, but she snatched it away. “Sherri, you can’t imagine for one minute that I’d fool around with someone like Anne.”

Now Malcolm jumped to his feet with the wine bottle still in his hand. He was still jovial of course. It amused him to wonder why any other person might find any attraction in the unimaginative creature he had the misfortune to marry. “I beg your pardon,” he sneered mockingly, “Brian, but that’s my wife you are insulting.”

“Yes, Brian, that wasn’t nice.” Sherri became quiet again. Taking the wine bottle from Malcolm, she found it was empty. “Sorry Anne,” she continued as she replaced the bottle with the first that came to hand. “There was no call for rudeness. Brian, apologise to our guests.”

“I just meant that I wouldn’t have an affair with Anne, that’s all.” Brian tried to sound apologetic.

Anne was a little louder than usual and, frowning, spoke directly to Brian. “I’m not good enough for you either; is that what you’re saying?”

Brian hastily replied, “I’m just saying I wouldn’t screw my best friend’s wife. Pass me the bag, I’ll change my letters. If you weren’t Malcolm’s wife, it would be different.”

“Ha! I was right. You do fancy Anne.” Sherri snapped as she topped up the four wine glasses with Vodka.

“Of course I do.” Brian admitted demurely, “She’s an attractive, friendly, considerate woman. I’ll change my letters.”

Malcolm still had that broad smile. He knocked his drink back in one gulp and took the bottle from Sherri, topping up his own and Anne’s glasses before handing it back. “There’s no need to sulk about it,” he laughed. “It’s just a game. Sherri, let him have it.” It was always this way with Malcolm. Condescending is the word for it but Brian wouldn’t say it. Four syllables he thought. I’m bound to be wrong.

“No. Malcolm,” Sherri snapped as she leaned heavily towards her work colleague. “Brazil is a proper noun. Brian, change your letters.”

“I’ve said I’ll change my letters. Anne, give me the bag.”

“No, Brian, it’s not fair.” Anne spoke so quietly that everyone strained to hear what she said. She took a large gulp from her glass, seeking courage from the vodka. “I’d say, to hell with the rules. I’d allow it.”

“Brazil you mean. Thanks but if it’s the rules, I’d better change my letters.”

“No Brian, I’m not talking about Brazil.” She stood with a sway and dropped her arm onto Brian’s shoulder. “I’m talking about their rules.Let’s play by their rules. It’s Okay for them to screw each other every time our back is turned, so why not us? Oh don’t try and deny it Sherri. I might not have a degree, but you don’t need an education to add two and two.”

“Anne!” At last, the ingratiating smile had left Malcolm’s face.

“Oh shut up, Malcolm,” Anne slurred. “You’ve had your share of affairs. And Sherri isn’t the only one.”

“Anne, behave. You’ve had too much to drink.”

“Give me that bottle. I haven’t even got started.” Anne grabbed the bottle and put it to her lips.

Brian collected the L, I and Z from the table. “Pass me the bag. I’ll change my letters.”

“No, Brian.” Anne scooped all the remaining letters from the board and tipped all the letters from the bag. A few needed to be turned over before she could rearrange them. “You missed your turn before. I’m not letting you miss another.”

Malcolm had never seen his wife take action without his prompting. In truth, she was generally forbidden to express an opinion without his permission. There was a curious note of concern in Malcolm’s voice. “Anne, what do you think you are doing?”

“Changing my letters.”

“But it’s not your turn,” Malcolm pleaded as Anne laid row after row on the board.

I W A N T A 

D I V O R C E.

“There you are Brian,” Anne proclaimed. “I am yours if you want me.”

Brian nodded. He said nothing but reached out and changed the first I for W and E. After studying the words for a few seconds, he smiled. “That’s definitely worth a double score.”

About eight months later, Malcolm picked up the postcard from the hall floor. “They’ve got married then. It’s only been four weeks since the decree absolute. I suppose they’re happy together.”

Sherri was always abrupt in the morning, and Malcolm timidly winced as she said, “Why shouldn’t they be, Malcolm? We are, aren’t we?”

Malcolm no longer smiled in that condescending way. Sherri had been promoted to head of department. Even at home, it sounded as though she was addressing an inferior. “Yes, Sherri dear, I meant, I suppose they are happy going to that place for their honeymoon.”

Taking the postcard from him, she looked at the “we are here” arrow drawn on the front. “Brazil, you mean. I can’t see what’s significant about that.”

When fairy stories can have far reaching consequences.

“Expect a flurry of snow on the hills,” the TV weatherman closes with his irritating smirk, and glibly waves towards the studio-generated map of Central England.
 
Mother phones. “The road’s clear, Arlene. Get your coat on and get over here.”
“Okay,” I agree. “I’ll put a shovel in the car just in case the weatherman’s wrong.”
“Take a whistle in case you get lost.”
“There’s only one road. I’m not likely to get lost.”
“Don’t stop for strangers. You know what men and fairies do to girls if they find them alone.”
“Yes I know what men and fairies do,” I say, although in truth, I don’t believe in fairies, and though I’m thirty-six, I’ve never been anywhere with a man long enough to find out.
 
Just to appease Mother, I set out with a referee’s whistle from my netball coaching days. I remember the shovel and even throw a blanket in the car. I have barely gone a mile before the first flakes flutter towards the windscreen. A mile later, I’m down to a crawl. The windscreen wipers struggle to cut an arc through the snow. Just as I lean forward to wipe away the condensation with the back of my glove, I hear a thud. The front wheel is stuck fast in snowdrift. I take the shovel from the back of the car and start to dig. Just in case some other idiot has ventured out in the blizzard, I lift the whistle to my lips and shrill out six long blasts. I utter every curse you can imagine, most of them I direct at mother. Then I see car lights snaking up the hill. “Lord be praised,” I say aloud.
 
That’s when she says, “The Lord won’t help you when the fairies come, Teacher.” I spin around. I mean, I’m in shock or whatever. I’m miles from anywhere and there’s a woman, or girl I should say, just standing in a snowdrift by the side of my car. I stammer out, “what… who… why?”
The girl speaks again. “You whistle up the king of the fairies, teacher The Lord won’t help you.” Even without coat or cardigan, she seems oblivious to the cold. “Come,” she says; “Come hide with me.”
“We should wait,” I insist. The car is closer with its headlights cutting a ghostly path through the blizzard. The girl takes the shovel from my hands. “If the fairies stop this time, I’ll protect you.”
“This time?” I say.
“This time,” she repeats. “You know the story. When the king of the fairies  comes, he never leaves alone.”
“But that’s just folklore,” I say.
The car crests the hill and stops just yards away. “Please,” she implores again. “RUN!”
 
The car door opens; the driver starts to get out. “It’s him!” she screams. He takes a step. The shovel swings. He falls. She hits. Blood reddens the snow.
I grab the shovel. “No,” I scream. She comes towards me. Blood red fingers stroke my face. “You’re safe now,” she says. “Come; I’ll protect you.”
“No,” I scream again. I swish the shovel back and forth. It passes through her. I turn and run through the blizzard. I hear the screech of her macabre laugh.  Then the screech turns into an ear-piercing scream. I run until my lungs burn. I collapse into the snow.  She lifts my hand in hers and kisses these fingers, one by one.  “You’re safe now, teacher.”
 
It’s morning when I wake. I’m alone. I hear people shouting. Arlene, they call. Arlene. I lift frozen fingers. The whistle freezes to my lips. 
 
“Expect a flurry of snow on the hills,” the TV weatherman closes with his irritating smirk, and glibly waves towards the studio-generated map of Central England.
 
The doctor turned to his companion. “Time to leave unless you want to here that story again.”  The two doctors left the room, the older said. “Thirteen years on and she still talks as though it happened today. Did you notice that? The story never changes, yet she is the third woman I’ve heard tell it. ”
“You’ve heard that before?”
“Yes, “ replied the other. ”Round here, it’s a traditional fairy tale. Parents tell their kids the story to stop them speaking to strangers. A woman gets lost in the snow and the fairy comes to her rescue. Then some innocent passer-by ends up dead.”
“But no one died, did they?” asked the younger man.
“Around eighty years ago someone did. Just before the war apparently, a teacher took his young lady up there. No one knows what happened but he ended up sliced almost in two with a shovel, and she died from exposure with the blood stained shovel in her hands. Now this woman is convinced she’s done the same.  We know she didn’t. We know the other women didn’t either but it’s a local legend, so here they are. Three women spending years in a mental home for the sake of a blessed fairy story.”
The other replied, “Things we tell our kids eh? Fairy stories have a lot to answer for.”

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