Sam Redlark

  Ronald Cattle's Summer Pen It was September 27th, 2005. In Clerkenwell, David Widera was tearing his hair out over Ronald Cattle's “fucking quill pen,” which had finally dried-up. Ronald was refusing to finish his novel claiming that, when the ink reserves were exhausted, the book was finished. When pressed, he pointed out the supporting paragraphs in a photocopy of the contract that had been hastily drawn up on a bar napkin, and duly signed, when the three of us were all the worse for wear. The original had been misfiled, or perhaps even mistaken for litter and thrown out, by the firm of solicitors that the Walmsley publishing house had engaged, ever since their inception in 1967. Clearly the book wasn't finished. In fact it had ended mid-word. Ironically that word was 'continuous'. Ronald had got as far as writing 'cont'. The remainder of the text was a barren inscription, void of pigmentation. “I'll tell you who else is a cont,” remarked David. It w

A Picture Postcard of the April Nymph The current highlight of a gloomier than normal January has been an invitation to an al fresco lunch at Pears Tennis Club, in Highgate, so called because it occupies a strip of land that, up until 1920, was a commercial orchard. My host was Janice Chesher, who is a legacy member of the club; one of her distant ancestors having played a role in its foundation. Tennis aficionados will perhaps remember Janice as the woman who received a lifetime ban from Wimbledon for throwing a strawberry at Nick Kyrgios. There exists unflattering footage of her drunkenly protesting, “If he isn't going to take the game seriously, then I'm not going to take him seriously,” as she is escorted from the stands by a trio of police officers. A more sympathetic explanation for her outburst than the one provided by the papers (where she was described as “demented”), is that she was, in her own way, attempting to come to terms with the unexpected death of her husband,

  Pursued by a Bear by Sam Redlark The shepherd found the bear on the foreshore, raised on its hind legs, roaring over the noise of the crashing waves. The beach was strewn with the washed-up wreckage of a ship and the drowned bodies of the crew. The shepherd saw blood on the rocks. Close by, a child was swaddled in a blanket. Next to the babe there was a bundle, within which he glimpsed the glitter of golden objects. “A man was seen from the clifftop, carrying this child in his arms,” announced the shepherd. The bear ceased its roaring duet with the ocean. It turned and gazed down upon the pitiful human figure. “The man you speak of is Antigonus, a noble from Sicily,” it said. “I have made my mark upon him, tearing him open at the shoulder. He has already exited this place on foot. I will see the whole job done and have him exit this world by my paw.” The bear dropped down on all fours and became a true bear, incapable of human thought or speech. It lol