Peter Rose
Bio
Collections of "my" vocal essays with additions, are available as printed books ASIN 197680615 and 1980878536 also some fictional works and some e books available at Amazon;-
amazon.com/author/healthandfunpeterrose
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Stories (353)
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A place in the country
A place in the country. Peace and tranquility. The garden looked neat and tidy, too regimented for a real country cottage garden, but appealing to “city” types looking for a home in the countryside. The whole cottage had been tarted up to sell to incomers. Local people could not afford the price demanded and would not find the strict order and magazine decor fitted to their real rural way of life. Muddy boots and sweat stained jackets would spoil the appearance for incomers while the locals had to live with mud and muck as part of their everyday work. The prim and organized estate agent, who called herself a life style adviser; would be horrified to think of herself as a sales person, pure and simple. Yet that was her job, selling overpriced country cottages to people who did not actually belong in the rural working community. She earned a hefty commission from the actual sales and from organizing the refurbishment work, mostly done by a firm owned by her brother, working from his fancy office in a large town fifty miles away, she regarded the cash he paid her as simply family gifts and not as a kick back for the blatantly inflated prices paid for the work done by his casually employed, on basic minimum wage, immigrant labour force. A work force who followed orders and patched up and painted over areas that really needed rebuilding. “New” kitchen appliances were sourced from a reconditioning, without guarantees, workshop belonging to her brothers brother in law. This whole enterprise was very profitable and the suitability of the purchasers to the noise and activity of a working agricultural area were never even considered, Most viewings took place when the tractors were silent and the cattle safe in the fields. The conveyancing lawyer was her husband and nearly all buyers could be persuaded that things would go much quicker if they used the same firm for their side of the legal formalities. There was also another money stream in this operation. The original owners of the property did not get a fraction of the price paid by these incomers. They sold to a property developer who technically purchased the property before refurbishment. This firm was based in a tax haven and the administrative details were dealt with by the same law firm as handled the later sales. When the original seller eventually got their money, they found a lot of expenses, which they had not anticipated, drained thousands from the money they banked.
By Peter Rose5 years ago in Fiction
Another day another crisis
Another day, another crisis. What is normal? It all started so simply and slowly, a routine call from the mail room. A suspicious package wrapped in brown paper had arrived in the post, will I get it checked out? The fancy odour detectors had not shown anything, the x rays had not detected anything looking like explosives so the parcel had been put in the containment room but marked as low urgency. Nobody was rushing about in a panic, so I waited until I had dealt with the overnight paper work then went to the mail room carrying a cup of coffee. If this delivery had been in a modern bubble wrap container or a standard express delivery carton, it would probably never have been so carefully examined, it was the old fashion use of brown paper that had suggested a need for some caution. I initiated a full spectrum trace of poisons or bio-agents on the outer surface. It is surprisingly difficult to package up something like anthrax without leaving some minute trace on the outer wrapping but nothing was registered. I put on standard disposable gloves and picked up the package. Not heavy, in fact surprisingly light, about twelve inches cube, almost exactly regular in every dimension. A gentle shake did not seem to cause any loose movement inside it. The brown paper was creased as if it had been folded into other sized packs before being used on this one. The hand written address was in black ball point “ink” the postage stamp was correct for second class delivery and the post office had obviously fed it through automated sorting machines with no problems. The cancelling of the postage stamp showed it had been posted three days ago. As expected we found many differing sets of finger prints on the wrapping but we followed protocols and made a record of them all, for later feeding through the data base of prints. The brown paper was sealed with transparent sticky tape, the type available in every supermarket, corner shop and stationary outlet, all of the country, so not any use to me. I used a scalpel and sliced the sticky tape in a way that allowed me to unfold the brown paper. It had been used on another package before this one the inside clearly showed where a label had been previously stuck, then removed, I put this aside as forensics may come up with a clue to the sender, from this previous use. Thinking about the sender it had to be someone in the “business” to know this address. We are a secret organisation for good reason and our address is not public knowledge. The top layer of content were brand new clothes, sweat shirts from a very popular very cheap multi outlet chain. They appeared to be new and unused but were not individually wrapped. Under this top layer was the real content. Documents. Or rather parts of documents. They were roughly torn not cut, ragged edges showed they had been rather hastily torn up and shoved in the package. Under the paperwork were more clothes very similar to the top layer.
By Peter Rose5 years ago in Fiction
The age of indulgence
The age of indulgence How lucky we are. There it is, in the center of the museum. In a vacuum sealed glass dome, surrounded by a security fence. The slice of chocolate cake. The children all stand, mouths open as the robo-teacher lists the ingredients, the calorific levels and the sugar content of this one slice. They gasp in fear as they are told people long ago used to eat more than one such slice at a “sitting.” We all now know how poisonous the ancient food was. We all understand that in order to be healthy we have to eat only synthetic vegetarian, sugar and salt free products, from the governments healthy options food factory. The automated teaching system carries on feeding information into implants which fed direct into each child's brain. The full horrors of our predecessors mental instability fueled by erratic diets and a lack of official government information is explained. The teaching continues to explain how lucky the present generation are to have the constant support of the world wide socialist republic. How the WWSR has saved humanity from anarchy, how in previous generations there had been differing opinions and differing views, all competing for attention. While now they enjoy the contentment of only one set of values, one direction to go into, one leader to obey. They are so lucky to be spared the horrors of decision, the pain of having to decide what to do and who to believe. Now all is peace and tranquility, all is one uniform normality.
By Peter Rose5 years ago in Fiction
Time and history
Time and history wait for no human. A thousand years as a second. It was a cold still morning, no wind not even a gentle breeze to disturb the piles of fallen leaves. The world was holding its breath. Inside the ramshackle old barn all was still, not even the loose boarding over the window spaces moved, all was still and silent. This elderly wooden building had been around so long the people had forgotten who built it and why. It had looked as if it was about to fall down for as long as anyone now alive could remember. But it stood, surviving heat and drought, surviving storms and tempests, even surviving the occasional attempts by trespassing drug taking teenagers, to set it on fire. No one was sure who it belonged to. The plot of land probably once also contained a dwelling but almost all trace of this had vanished. The swathes of bramble and nettles and the rough traces of a drive way were the only signs that the barn had once had a purpose. To most even the brambles and nettles would appear to be part of the natural landscape but these tell tales of previous human activity, were clear messages to those who can recognize these things. The wooden walls had never been painted, the door hinges were hand forged in iron. Anyone making a close check would see that the wooden frame was made of oak. This and the hand forged metal work, showed that this was both a very old structure and also how costly and valuable it had been when first made. Now it looked empty and rather forlorn, as if it had given up waiting to be brought back to use and life.
By Peter Rose5 years ago in Fiction
What makes the difference?
What makes the difference? What makes one politician more electable than any other? If cold science and logic is applied to politics, or anything else involving humans; there is very little difference between those who are popular and the rest. Yet in politics this “very little difference” is what determines who, in a democracy, we are governed by.
By Peter Rose5 years ago in The Swamp
Victims or cause?
Victims Where do you start to look? It seems, if you are unwise enough to take any notice of any section of the media; as if everyone is a victim or supports self proclaimed victims. If you believe the politically correct “ultra woke” brigade (as differing from “woke” people who have a genuine concern for the welfare of others) all females are victims, all nonwhite are victims, all non heterosexuals are victims, everybody is a victim, even overpaid, privileged celebrities are victims!! Even minor royalty who have £millions and have led a protected and ultra privileged life, are victims!
By Peter Rose5 years ago in The Swamp
A diary that will never be read
A diary that will never be read Is there to be life after life? I am writing this down more in hope than expectation. The chance that anyone left alive will even bother to look for my records are so very remote. Today, the first day of my diary, is 16 June in the year 2091. I am now alone, my companions have left their physical bodies here and gone in search of a better place. They have no knowledge that such a place exists but they think anywhere has to be better than here.
By Peter Rose5 years ago in Fiction
Which way is North?
Which way is North? To start again. The tiny group of people stood in a huddle waiting for the sun to rise, they wait silently and with a stillness that only experienced hunters can achieve. They are on the top of Glastonbury Tor, the rising sun will show them directions, since the ancient words they followed said the sun was from the east. From this they could select their path for the day. All around the ancient Tor is black water, thick with reeds and mud. Emerging from the waters are the ruins of a world that had once been so sure of its future, so certain of its ability to master nature and so careless about its past.
By Peter Rose5 years ago in Fiction
The empty time
The empty time. After the revenge. The wind is the only thing that is moving. The sky is blue and the sun bright; as if the universe is mocking what is left of humanity. I have crept unwillingly, from my makeshift bed and gazed across the silent town. To escape the stench and probable disease, from all the rotting remains of thousands of human bodies, I have set up camp across the valley in the uninhabited industrial park. No industry now, no anything now, or ever again; it is like looking at a painting that surrounds me a full 360 degrees. I am seeing all, but also taking in so little. It is incredible; almost all humans wiped out in such a short time. Before the news channels faded out they had been reporting the same incredible scenes of destruction, the same mindless killing of any and all humans from all round the world. An orgy of bloodletting and murder. If there is anyone to write a history of the end of humanity, they will claim that it had only taken twenty one days from start to finish. This is not really accurate since the origins of the death and destruction were put in place over several weeks, before the terror was actually unleashed. I guess that much of the history I have ever learnt, is similarly light on factual accuracy.
By Peter Rose5 years ago in Fiction
Karma or consequences?
Karma or consequences? Consideration of Karma There are many people on this planet who understand and accept that; unless in defence of self, or those connected by love or loyalty; any human who deliberately and consciously does harm to another human; is usurping that individuals responsibility for themselves. The harm doer, in this situation, then forcibly becomes responsible for the well-being of the person they harm. Hence the circle of Karma starts.
By Peter Rose5 years ago in Longevity
