One more time

I pay extra for your essential lines

The twine and the strained tone

Your charge point slides my cash

Into your present day and my tomorrow

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Raindrops pattered on the wooden bridge. In the shadows darkly clad surveillance watched and waited, waited and watched, for any sign of approach to the dead drop. All they needed was to clock their target and they had the lead that could take them into the web of deceit that pervaded the department.

A figure came towards them and immediately the automatic shutter on the night vision camera was in motion. The tracked it to the bridge, watched it halt and bend near the second pillar. The camera was stopped as the hooded top left, made its way across the bridge and out of sight.

Back at the Centre the download was examined by the latest pattern recognition system and the result displayed on the conference suite screen.

“What the hell is that?” said the Head.

“Looks like we clocked Homer Simpson in a hoody,” said the analyst.

“D’oh!” said the field operative.

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Reality Returns

‘Where do we go from here?’ said Alexander.

‘Somewhere different. Somewhere more my style.’ said Nicola.

‘I thought you were one of us.

You fought our wars.

You made us grow.

Now to be different?’

‘Aye that’s true.



We were always different, but we always wanted to belong.

We see it all now though.

You’re togetherness was just a front.

We stuck the arrogance and the parochialism.

Now we won’t.’

‘What will become of us?

We need you to stay.’

‘You may need us, true.

You will want our output, but we need a better solution.

A solution based on our background, not yours.

We can still be partners, on equal terms.

We want our own people deciding on our issues, not punted to the rear and quickly forgotten about.’

‘I can’t argue with that. What’s in it for me?’

‘You get to keep your parliament and your missiles.

You can still use your North as workers to feed your South and you can solely direct your wrath on them.

But us, you leave.

We will not devalue ourselves anymore.’

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Red ribbons fluttered in the breeze heralding the approach of the storm.

We lashed down what we could before the category five nightmare was upon us.

In the basement we were physically secure, but in mental agony as the sound of a supersonic express train drove through our ears.

Eventually, the calm descended to an eerie bird less scene that crept before us in the brightening morning. One by one the survivors emerged to their shattered world; shaken and numb.

And then there was Brian. Outside his collapsed outhouse he was stoking the embers of his favourite pastime.

‘You lot on for a barbecue?’ he hollered.

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