Author: Alexander Fawn

He was reading through the first draft of a short story he’d written.

It was only a short crime story, but it did contain at least three cleverly placed clues; four if you included the title as being one. Despite its size, it contains all the clues required for the detective to solve it. There was the number of place settings, indicating how many people were originally expected, and the name of the agency that provided the waiter. Of course, there’s the date that had been set for the celebratory dinner. It wouldn’t be until they got to the end of the story that the reader would see the significance of the title. Will his readers be clever enough to untangle it, or would he just get lumbered with a whole load of comments that are actually asking for help?

After a few moments of careful thought, he consigned it to the ‘On Hold’ folder.

It was generally understood that he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer.

The teenager thought that the latest ap he’d downloaded to his phone was really cool. He’d only had it for three days, but he’d already accrued more than three hundred points. Not just any points, orange points! It was great! He’d racked up another twelve just sitting in the waiting room. He’d reported, the way he was supposed to. Meanwhile, the Parole Officer thought about his next parolee, out in the waiting room. Knowing that he had the IQ of an amoeba didn’t mean that he wouldn’t necessarily get the job. However, because he was obviously a few fries short of a Happy Meal, he would need some encouragement. At the end of the day, the fact that his elevator didn’t go all the way up to the top floor shouldn’t stop him from being given a chance. As he generally gave the impression that the lights are on but nobody was home and was, in fact, as thick as two short planks, he would need to help him along a bit.

In short, the Parole Officer knew that he was a few cents short of a dollar, but he believed everybody deserved a fair go. He had filled out the job application form for him and he would do his best to prepare him for the interview.

The following day, the applicant, duly indoctrinated in the finer techniques of being interviewed, sat across from the company’s Human Resources Manager.

The manager finally looked up. He smiled when he noted that the applicant was putting his phone away. “Now, Mister Thorpington, I’ve read your CV.”

The boy’s eyebrows shot up. “You said Thorpington?”

“I did.”

“Sorry. Just rings a bell, that’s all.”

The mission was a simple one.

Simple, but absolutely vital to the country’s national security. He’d been handpicked by the chief. The briefing that took place in MI6’s headquarters went for two hours. He was to fly out the following day, meet up with an overseas agent, who would provide him with copies of confidential military documents. There would be a parcel with a great number of these, wrapped and sealed for him to bring back. Airport security had been informed of this, allowing him to return through customs without a hitch. He had a hotel room booked for two nights to cover any contingencies.

The next day, after landing, he went directly to his hotel. The flight had been bumpy and he felt slightly jetlagged when he landed. He had time to relax in his room before meeting up with his fellow agent that same day.

As arranged, the two agents met on a park bench, where the material would be passed over. It was immediately apparent that no parcel had been brought. The agent explained that the documents could only be accessed, one section at a time and copied. This had been done over a number of days. He said that it was all there. It had been decided to load these files onto a tiny flash drive, which had been hermetically sealed in polythene.

It was suggested that the reason for the change of format should be explained verbally to his chief in MI6, owing to the delicate nature and complex method used to gather the information. On parting, a shake of the hand allowed the small item to pass between them.

That evening he dined in the hotel’s restaurant; the food and drink being accompanied by the small object. At the desk, he informed them that he intended to leave the next day. He was still not feeling the best and considering that his mission had been completed, the sooner he got home, the better.

It was late when he got to his room, and he was very tired. He would call the chief when he got back home with an update.

On his arrival, he planned to get a taxi from the airport, going directly home.

That’s what should have happened.

Unhappily, crossing to the taxi rank he stepped in front of an airport bus.

There was no doubt about the cause of death.

No post mortem was required.

He had her visit for an evening meal at his place.

The evening went well, with him managing to impress her with his home-cooked beef lasagna. He felt that this could be the beginning of something. He had always liked her. They’d known each other since their schooldays. She now worked in a dress boutique in town, while he was in the accounts department, in the head office of a construction company. They both worked in town and not far apart. He had seen her a few times having lunch at one of the big department stores. She was often there with other women, probably friends who also worked locally. It had been a case of him only admiring from afar.

That had been the case, until he saw her sitting alone as he entered the department store’s cafeteria. With his tray of food and drink, he made his way to her table. His heart skipped a beat when she looked up and smiled as he approached.

They sat chatting and eating as though the intervening years didn’t exist. Most of their talk was about work and food; mostly food. Especially him. He talked about some of the dishes he really liked to cook at home. One thing led to another and that is how it happened that he invited her to his place one evening for a meal.

As said, the meal had gone well, and after washing up he sat relaxing in front of the television for a while before turning in. In fact, he was about to do that, when he got a call on his phone.

Being late, he wasn’t sure about taking it until it occurred to him that it could be her!

He answered the call and was thrilled to hear her voice on the other end, apologising.

He said, “Why, what’s the problem?”

“Sorry,” she repeated, “It probably sounds silly, but I can’t find my lipstick! Apart from being expensive, it’s my favourite. I must have left it at yours. It’s only small and I must have dropped it or something. So sorry.”

“OK No need to apologise, I’ll take a look around now, if you like, and call you back if I find it.”

“Oh! That’s really sweet of you. It’s rather late. Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Not at all. I’ll start looking now.”

She said, “Thank you so much,” and rang off.

He stood thinking for a while. He realised that this could be a good thing. If he found it, they could arrange for her to call in for it. It would be a sure way of seeing her again. He had to find it.

Knowing that she had used the bathroom during her visit, that was the first and most likely place he looked. Nothing there. Now he would search around in all the unlikely places…

He was laying on the floor, looking under the settee when his phone sounded.

Struggling up, he opened the call.

“Hallo” he said.

“Thanks for looking,” she said. “It’s OK, silly me, I found it!”

Words upon words.

A scribbler at work,

With pencilled words,

And a pressing of keys,

And screen scrolling.

Plots in play.

Tales and verse emerge.

–

A passion for the pen,

Bringing fragmented notions

And a tapestry of thoughts

To form the artistry of words.

Ancient in its beginnings

And diverse in all its meanings.

–

A page fills like a canvas,

While the hourglass is ignored.

Notions come like flowers blooming,

Words are possessed and held.

Allowing the fire to burn within,

With a coaxing out of thoughts,

Or curbing a torrent of images,

Each giving life to lines.

–

Outside of a busy world,

Scribbling dances into the night,

Letting the heart of it dictate,

With phrases sparking into life.

–

A craft that stirs the emotions.

A workpiece in the making.

A gift in the offing,

And the universe smiles back.

–

Look out across the world,

With people everywhere,

Playing out their lives.

Each with their own stories.

With… words upon words upon words…

She was lying on the bed dreaming.

This would have to be one of her favourite pastimes. The bedroom was quiet and this gave her time to think. She knew it was fanciful, but she really wished she could be somebody else! She imagined what it would be like to be an army commando, with a rifle, preparing to go into battle, or a nurse in a uniform, with a stethoscope around her neck. What about being an astronaut that is trained to be launched into space, to land on a planet somewhere and gather samples for scientific analasis when he returns to Earth. It would be really great if she could be some kind of tribal warrior that led others into combat.

Anything but to be her… to have to listen to all the… “isn’t she pretty”, and “can we dress her up?”, and “she looks really gorgeous in that hat!”

She sighed. The fact was, being a Barbie doll really wasn’t that great…

He fantasized about a completely digital life.

Although, like most people, he had no certain idea of how life actually came about, he couldn’t help wondering about how it might change in the future. After all, we are a digital-technology-based society right now! He couldn’t help dreaming about an advanced society where Ctrl + Y would save you the time of having to go back and do something all over again. Ctrl + A would allow you to immediately get a better picture of everything. Ctrl + S could be used to make sure what you have done is captured. Ctrl + N. could be used to start over with a clean canvas and begin something completely new. Ctrl + Z would simply go back and undo something you’ve done… and good old Ctrl + D would instantly get rid of anything you don’t want!

Could we all end up as data bytes just floating around in the ether? Probably not.

Where will it all end?

The writer never responded directly to comments received on his blog.

His priority was to give as much time as was possible to the actual business of writing. Despite this, he always read through these with considerable interest on a regular basis and gave them serious thought. Over a number of years, he saw a common theme to the remarks sent. Overall, it was only a small proportion of the observations about his style of telling short stories, but it was a repeated one. He thought about the nature of these and tried to sum them up as a generic remark. That wasn’t easy. It mainly came down to his style of writing a story. He sat for a while considering how he would respond if a single personification of all such commenters was sitting in front of him. What sort of thing would this imaginary questioner ask? Moreover, what sort of answers would he give?

He allowed the scene to open in his mind…

Commenter: Quite often, you seem to deliberately make your short stories obscure, as a result they can be difficult to understand.

Writer: OK. I think you are accusing me of obfuscation.

Commenter: I suppose I am.

Writer: Yes. Others have said the same thing. Of course, they are quite right.

Commenter: So, you do this knowingly?

Writer: I do.

Commenter: Why?

Writer: Ah! That’s the question, isn’t it? Why do I do it? Well, the short answer is because I can, but I’m sure you’d regard that as an unsatisfactory response.

Commenter: Yes. I would.

Writer: OK. Although some of these stories are simple on the surface, they are actually quite blatantly designed to make the reader think about difficult concepts. I’m sure that some readers don’t want this. They simply want a quick story and nothing else.

Commenter: Yeah.

Writer: Anyway, quite apart from the odd red herring, I occasionally give a hint or a clue for the reader to figure out what happens next. I’ve even written a story within a story, but I think it goes deeper than this.

Commenter: Go on.

Writer: I’m aware of the fact that my story content is sometimes deliberately obscure. I think I do this because I want the reader to stop and think about it. Maybe, I consider it reasonable to expect that only a two- or three-minute read is worth spending another minute or so to look inside the story.

Commenter: I see.

Writer: I’m sure it’s only a case that some readers want to do this and others don’t. I guess, at the end of the day it all comes right down to taste. Of course, I’m aware of this, but it’s not something I think about when writing.

With this final response, the writer walked through to the kitchen and put the kettle on.

They were all gathered there, on Mount Olympus.

A number of gods and goddesses were standing around chatting. It was quite a scene. He stood to one side looking on in amazement. There were so many of them! He figured that Zeus had called them all here for some special meeting or other. He only recognised some of them. He was looking at Hera, Aphrodite, Hermes, Apollo, and of course, Zeus himself sitting on his throne. From all his readings of Greek Mythology as a boy, he remembers stories about Hera, an interesting goddess who was both the wife and sister of Zeus, and queen of the gods. Another of his favourites was Hermes, the messenger of the Olympian gods, particularly Zeus. He was also associated with travellers, trade, luck, and even thieves.

He also spotted Apollo, a patron of the arts, including music and poetry. Then, there was the gorgeous Aphrodite, the goddess of love, beauty, pleasure and desire. Up there, above them all, seated on his magnificent throne, Zeus the god of the sky, lightning and thunder. He was considered to be the ruler, protector, and father of all the gods.

After a while, he began to wonder how it was that he been extended the privilege of being here, where he stood, in the company of such powerful deities. These Olympians, who were obviously still overseeing mankind and its deliberations.

He was pondering all this when he noticed that some heads were turning to look at him. At the same time, Hermes was climbing up the steps to the throne. Once there, standing beside Zeus, looking directly at, and pointing to, the newcomer, in a loud, booming voice, he said, “Excuse me Zeus; but what’s that mortal doing here?”

Wow! Thought the gate crasher, that must have been the best magic mushroom brew, ever!”

The hobo had noticed that the old vacant property had been empty for several weeks.

It was a two-story house that was well passed its best. Despite the ‘For Sale’ sign, it didn’t look as though it would sell anytime soon. He decided to check it out. Daylight was failing as he wandered around the back, nevertheless he found a window that had not been fully closed. It was easy to climb in. Once inside, he made his way through all the rooms. There wasn’t much in the way of furniture. What there was, had also seen better days. On the top landing, he found a hatch in the ceiling and a pulldown ladder. With some difficulty, he managed to climb up into the loft.

Of course, no lights were working. Only skylights in the roof let in a soft glow from the outside street lamps. It was really quite spacious with very little in it. Despite this, he found enough material in the way of old sheets and blankets to make up a fairly cosey bed for himself. In fact, he had such a good night’s sleep that he slept right through to late morning the next day.

That’s when he found a plate of food scraps near the hatch. He was convinced it was not there when he first climbed in. Did someone know he was there? Was this merely a kindness on somebody’s part?

He was unaware of the pest controller’s visit earlier that morning.

…and he certainly didn’t know about the rat bait!