Secret Society
I joined a secret society
advertised in the back pages of a magazine.
I forget which, but I found it nestled
in 8pt font and fancy border
between time share apartments in Lanzarote
and the commemorative plates.
Yours for just three easy payments of £34.99.
I’ve always found it hard to believe
that there are people who fall for such things
as price is not always an indication of quality.
My first meeting
was after work.
I had no time to change.
The possibility of judgement followed me
but I left it at the door
when Brother Timothy taught me the secret handshake.
I was led to a circle of ancient chairs
recognisable from my youth
still tight across the seat
like a poorly aimed hug.
The party room of The King and Miller
(known locally as The Ming and Killer)
was already indoctrinated in sweat
from the aerobics class that had gone before us.
It is important to remember
all are welcome
and Swiss balls
should always be stored correctly
unless you want to end up
in a cheap remake of The Prisoner.
I was allowed a pint (discounted)
and ate sandwiches at half time.
There were a lot of questions to be answered about life
the universe and everything.
I didn’t know everything, but I did my best.
And that’s all any of us can do.
Honestly, I thought I’d come last, but scores weren’t counted
or settled, and that made a nice change.
Afterwards, I donated two pounds to a nameless raffle
trusting it would go to Good Causes.
The football was on when we left, filing out unobtrusively
in long velvet cloaks. I said I’d bring payment next week
the garment on loan until then.
I’d been given several gifts:
a new name, the title of acolyte, and a smear of jam
across the knuckles. Initiation Ceremony 2.0, I was told.
The old one put people off and involved a badger.
Now they just use jam with bits in.
Chanting should be kept down after last orders
because of the neighbours.
Wishing to show my appreciation
I informed the Elders I could whip up
a mean Victoria sponge and promised
to bring one to next week’s meeting—
for consumption, for sacrifice, for whatever works best.
They seemed surprised by my enthusiasm
but I’d had a good time
and there is rarely anything decent to do
anymore
on a Friday night.
Zoe Davis is a writer from Sheffield, England. A quality engineer by day, she spends her free time writing poetry and prose and especially enjoys exploring the interaction between the fantastical and the mundane, with a deeply personal edge to her work. You can also follow her on X @MeanerHarker where she is always happy to have a chat.