to their conversation with a growing curiosity, asked.
Neither Ali nor Gupta answered him; Gupta, because he fully believed in his religion, and Ali because he totally and unreservedly believed in the Cryptic Agenda, Transmigration and Alocyrrehcyzzif.
“I will speak with you on the morrow,” Ali said to Gupta, and then opening the shop door he exited the shop.
“That’s a weird one,” said the customer who had been listening to their every word.
“I beg your pardon,” Gupta answered vacantly, his mind still set on his brainwashed compatriot.
“I said, he’s a strange one, spouting that mumbo-jumbo. I always say you can’t beat the established religions.”
“And which one might you be a part of?”
“Me – none of them – I’m an atheist,” he proudly professed. “But if I were in one of them, it would be an established religion, not one of those new-age ones, here today and gone tomorrow.”
With that piece of profound thought still ringing in his ears, Gupta handed the man his change and thanked him for his custom.
True to his word, Ali returned to the shop the next evening. While there, he tried so hard to convince Gupta that he and his wife should join the Cryptic Agenda. He went on and on about how happy they would be after they had joined it, and realised all that it had to offer them. In the end, Gupta had to ask him to leave, saying he was quite happy with his present religion.
After leaving the shop without securing any converts for the Cryptic Agenda, Ali made his way through the quiet streets to the large, red brick house where he worshipped and studied.
When she opened the door to him, Jean Walters, the assistant Grand Master, was disappointed to see Ali alone.
“I am sorry,” he said penitently, “I was unable to convince my friends to accompany me here.”
“The Grand Master will not be pleased that you have failed him,” Jean sternly replied. Bidding him enter, she said, “You know the way through.” Then she left him to make his way into the study room, alone.
After taking off his shoes, Ali walked quietly into a small, dimly lit room where he spent most of his free time studying the word. Seeing six other people (three of them new to him) already seated upon the floor on their cushions Ali joined them.
After several minutes in quiet contemplation on the merits and wonders of the Bottle of Transmigration displayed on the altar in front of them, Ali heard people talking behind the purple coloured curtain used as a backdrop, behind it. Suddenly, the curtain opened, allowing Jean and The Grand Master to enter the room.
“You are welcome, here, to this place,” Jean said in her usual slippery smooth voice. “Sadly, badly, one of you has failed in your duty to the Cryptic Agenda,” she said ominously. In the dimly lit room, all eyes rested on Ali. He smiled nervously.
After Jean had finished welcoming the new converts, she brought everyone up to date on the Cryptic Agenda’s recent activities. When she had finished, she introduced the Grand Master, a tall, bearded man called George Ducket. As Jean disappeared behind the thick curtain, the group welcomed the Grand Master with a round of applause.
“Thank you, thank you,” he said as he inspected his audience sitting on their cushions before him. “Thank you so much for coming here, and on so bad an evening.”
The Grand Master welcomed the three groups of two, but ignored the lone group of one. He praised the newcomers for having the faith and insight to join the Cryptic Agenda, which would culminate in the Transmigration of their souls to Alocyrrehcyzzif.
Although Ali was totally committed to the cause, he felt increasingly awkward as the Grand Master continued to heap praise on the new followers, while patently ignoring him. After listening for over fifteen minutes, with no end in sight to how the Grand Master was praising the newcomers, while ignoring him, Ali could not take any more. Standing up, shouting at the top of his voice, he said, “I have tried to get two converts – Gupta and Sonita Singe – but I need more time to convince them to come see you! I am sorry, I am so sorry that I have let you and the Cryptic Agenda down. If there is any way I can make amends for the terrible thing that I have done, Grand Master? Please, please tell me!”
As if he had heard nothing, the Grand Master stared over Ali’s head to the front of the room. Then the curtain opened again, revealing a sullen faced Jean as she walked slowly, methodically across to the Bottle of Transmigration. Then she carefully picked it up from the altar.
“Ah, so you have the Bottle of Transmigration,” the Grand Master said cheerfully to her. Approaching the Grand Master, she stood solemnly next to him, holding the said bottle. “That is good, very good” he said encouragingly to her.
Ali was puzzled. Had the Grand Master not heard what he had just said, hollered? Moreover, if not, why not? He watched Jean, the Grand Master and the bottle with acute interest.
“Ali,” the Grand Master said, finally addressing him. “Ali, it has been decided to offer you a chance of full Transmigration. Perhaps, in Alocyrrehcyzzif, you will find your true place.”
Ali was ecstatic, to think he was being offered Transmigration – and so soon.
“Approach us,” the Grand Master ordered, “approach the bottle of Bottle of Transmigration. Your time is here, it is your time”
Hardly able to contain his excitement, Ali stepped towards the front of the room, and the altar. The Grand Master beckoned him to stand in front of Jean who was holding the Bottle of Transmigration before him.
“Ali, have you any last words?” he asked.
“Last words?” Ali thought, in shocked surprise, “I don‘t like the sound of THAT!”
“Jean, please unscrew the bottle top.”
With increasingly frightened, eyes, Ali watched Jean as she unscrewed the top of the bottle.
“Do you have anything to say, Ali?” the Grand master asked.
Ali’s mouth opened wide, but words failed to come.
“Very well,” said the Grand Master, “remove it.”
With that command, Jean removed the bottle top and pointed the bottle directly at Ali.
No sooner had she done this, a vortex exploded out of the bottle. Then, taking hold of Ali, it began pulling him kicking and screaming back into it. It was over in an instant; Ali was gone. Silence returned to the dimly lit room.
Screwing the top back onto the bottle, Jean returned it to the altar in front of the curtain.
“That, my dear people, is how we Transmigrate,” explained the Grand Master. “The only problem, however, is that for it to work properly you must have first died.” He stared into the bottle, watching the contorted face of Ali floating around inside it, with the other like-minded souls who had fallen foul of the Cryptic Agenda, for failing to find converts, before him. “As you can see,” the Grand Master explained, “if you enter the Bottle of Transmigration before your physical body has died, you are cursed to remain there for all eternity…”
After the service was over, and everyone had gone home, the Grand Master said to Jean, “Who were those people Ali mentioned before he left us so untimely?”
“They are Gupta and Sonita Singe.” she told him.
“Do you know where we can find them?”
“I do,” she replied, smiling. “They run a convenience store, not too far from here.”
“That’s good,” he replied, beaming with confidence. “I think we should go pay them a visit.”
Sparky Parents
I will tell you this, from me to you,
To raise good children all you need to do,
Is be good parents, be shining bright,
The spark of their dreams and the light of their lives,
So that while they are young and everything is new,
You can be their best friend and they also with you,
For childhood is fleeting and before very long,
They will have departed the nest and left you alone,
So pull up a blanket and lie beneath th
e stars,
Dreaming together of pipes, cloaks and cars.
Don’t call me that!
Don’t call me that; the new Roald Dahl,
I am not that man, either new or old,
I am the writer, as mad as can be,
The Crazymad Writer; it’s the truth – YIPPEE.
Mary Had a ‘Little’ Lamb
Mary had a little lamb so round, so fat, so plump,
It tried to follow everywhere but couldn’t even jump.
One day while she was out it opened up the door,
And set off down the road to find its Mary dear.
Despite searching high and low,
The poor lamb could not see,
That Mary had eloped and gone,
With Jill’s young Jack, hee hee.
The Fog
It was a cold November evening, so cold the weak, autumnal sun made no inroad into the heavy frost that had descended the previous night. As I approached my friends’ house, I looked forward to the warmth of their fire, the congenial atmosphere, and a glass of warm Madeira wine. It was a custom, a family tradition to offer their visitors this warming imbibe, a custom that had survived the passage of time, including the family’s migration from the tiny outpost of the same name, far out in the Atlantic Ocean, to merry old England. Generations of guests had enjoyed this warming drink on such cold wintry nights.
Opening the gate, I walked along the path, admiring the garden that was always in such pristine condition, no matter what time of year or how bad the weather happened to be. Lifting the doorknocker, a facsimile of a lion’s head, I gave the door an assertive knock. I waited for my hosts to respond.
“Is that Jeremiah?” Christine