Author: Alexander Fawn

From the beginning inventions

Have been going on.

Even now, from year to year.

Such a lot of really clever stuff,

So many things invented.

Too many to mention here.

–

The first wheels began to turn,

Improving transportation and travel,

By an ever increasing degree.

It may have started with a potter’s wheel,

In three thousand five hundred BC.

–

Writing implements in Mesopotamia;

Its importance couldn’t be clearer.

Three and a half thousand years

Into the Common Era.

–

The compass allowed navigation,

With ships sailing to and fro,

Exploring new lands across the seas.

With travellers busy preparing maps,

It enabled geographical location,

Two hundred years ago.

–

From the first solar calendars,

To the one now widely used,

Two long millennium have past.

With its accuracy in doubt,

A pope sorted it out,

And made it more accurate at last.

–

Sundials have been on the go

For around six thousand years.

They’ve seen a complete redesign.

All clocks from them derive,

Water clocks became mechanical

In China, in seven twenty five.

–

In fourteen fifty, came the printing press.

It was Gutenberg’s solution.

With newspapers spilling onto the streets,

It really came into its own,

And playing an intrinsic part

In the industrial revolution.

–

The electric battery in eighteen hundred;

Volta’s clever invention.

Creating a constant supply of power,

And used to operate so many things,

It’s certainly worth a mention.

–

There was Babbage’s mechanical computer,

Back in eighteen twenty two,

Weighing in by the ton.

Despite its many moving parts,

Something digital had begun.

–

Perkins built his refrigerator in eighteen thirty four,

Prolonging the life of food.

Based on the principle of removing heat,

The idea was rather shrewd.

–

Then came the telegraph from Morse and his team.

A far reaching thing to invent.

Long-distance communication made possible,

And using his code in eighteen forty four,

The first telegraphic message was sent.

–

The electric bulb, designed to last,

Lit up in eighteen eighty.

After lots of filaments braking,

And with tungsten finally used,

It certainly brought more light into the world,

The invention being quite weighty.

–

The airplane would take travellers across the globe,

Something da Vinci could draw and foresee.

It all started with the Wright brothers,

In nineteen hundred and three.

–

In nineteen forty seven, the transistor was born,

Amplifying electric signals greatly.

Replacing the vacuum tube to send signals further,

It opened the way for the electronics age,

With a great deal more, lately.

–

At an annual trade show in nineteen fifty nine,

An amazing thing was first demonstrated.

It was a solid integrated circuit,

Now commonly called the microchip,

Allowing new ways of doing things,

And an exciting future was created.

–

And finally to the humble pork pie, quite out of place,

From way back in seventeen forty seven.

It could be considered before its time,

The recipe came from Hannah Glasse.

And for some, the taste of heaven!

She was watching a show on the television, when she heard a noise coming from the kitchen.

Switching the show to mute, she moved silently out into the hall. She prayed that it had simply been something that had been stacked and had finally toppled down or some household pest running around looking for food… anything but him! As she entered the kitchen, she stopped dead in her tracks. It was him, he was there again; he had come back. She was confronted by that same old evil smile. This time her husband was holding a large knife. He was waving it around and looked even more menacing than any time before. She looked around and her eyes settled on the jar of rock salt. Before he could act, she flipped off the lid and through the contents at him. He let out an unholy scream and within moments he just melted away.

Back in the lounge, she opened her phone and found their number. When she got through, she explained what had happened. She had been told that in really bad cases the first spiritual purification may need a follow up.

She made an appointment for another a house cleansing.

The story goes that the old gold digger hit pay dirt.

Nobody knows how true it is. They say he had travelled what must have been the best part of thirty kilometres, on foot, in one day. Through the hot desert and the bush, he had made his way into town. He started before sunup and arrived at the public house in the late afternoon. Exhausted, he went to the bar and dropped a tiny pellet of gold on the counter. He sat with cold beers recuperating for a while before thinking about the huge gold nugget he was carrying. He thought it would be unwise to have it on display in public, particularly in such a place. He made his way to the gents, where he dug into his pocket. It was not there! He found a hole! He checked his other pocket. He checked all of his pockets, several times. It was obvious; it had been that pocket. It had been in that pocket with the tear in it and it had fallen out, but where?

He asked himself how anything that big and that heavy could fall through his pocket without him noticing. It had been a very hot day. He had felt delirious a couple of times. Anyway, the more he thought about it, the more he realised that it could only be somewhere along the thirty kilometres he’d just walked. He would have to retrace his route, every inch of it! It would be worth it; worth the trouble. He’d get a room here, then take off at first light.

Back at the bar, without making too much of a show of it, he began by checking the floor of the pub, then the steps at the front. He got a few queer looks from people, but ignored them. They didn’t know what was at stake. Outside, he stood looking back along the side of the road he had come in on. He shook his head and went back in to finish his drink.

The story goes that back at the bar he thinks about how he’d found what he’d spent three long years looking for. He remembers how he was chipping away when the thing just fell out and landed at his feet. He remembers how he picked it up and weighed it in the palm of his hand. He had tried to estimate what it was worth. It had to be worth thousands, considering the going rate. It would either fetch enough for him to retire, or at the very least to return to the same spot and hopefully find more and with better equipment and supplies. Thinking back, it now dawned on him that he’d come away too quickly, on an impulse. There was bound to be more at the site. Despite everything, that night he slept well.

Some say he took off the next morning. Some say he went back, all the way back, taking care to retrace his steps, and some say he was never seen again.

He had just been released from prison and was on parole after doing a stretch for burglary.

He wasn’t going back. Some of the older jailbirds seem to do time OK, but he didn’t. He’d had enough! He was still young enough to put it all behind him. His parole officer had found him work a in a building supplier’s warehouse, the pay wasn’t much, but it would get him back on his feet. They had agreed, as part of his rehabilitation that he should have as little as possible to do with the criminal fraternity that he had grown up with. This agreement applied in particular to his brother-in-law, a prominent member of the underworld. It was him that had got him started down the road of crime.

That evening he would go out and celebrate his freedom. After a long, hot shower at his mum’s, he put on a suit that had been waiting for him. When he arrived at his local, several of his old mates were there, wanting to welcome him back. The evening went really well and the beer flowed freely. He was completely drunk when, just before closing time, his brother-in-law showed up.

He pulled him to one side and whispered, “I’ve got a little job for you. Nice little earner. No risk. Right up your street, it is…”

The park was pretty and the bench was comfortable.

“What time is it?”

“Just gone nine.”

“No kids.”

“Eh?”

“No kids. They’re all at school.”

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

“Isn’t it school holidays?”

“No. That’s next week.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Anyway, you’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Being argumentative.”

“Hey! That’s a bit harsh. I just thought it was this week, that’s all.”

“OK. But you do tend to contradict unnecessarily sometimes.”

“I disagree.”

“There you go again.”

“Look…”

“When a person has a different point of view about something, surely it’s reasonable to allow them to voice it?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether it is actually reasonable.”

“But…”

“It’s also about timing, of course the degree of repetition comes into it.”

“Hey! You talk about me! Have you any idea how argumentative you sound?”

“No.”

“Well, you do.”

“I’ll have to think about that…”

He looked up and was suddenly aware of a number of passing pedestrians taking an interest in him.

He whispered to himself, “Shut up, people are watching.”

She loved her job, she was always up to date with the latest news.

The town was a touch behind the times, but nobody minded that. The community regarded itself as old worldly and that suited those who lived there. It was so out of the way that there was no mobile coverage in there region and the central telephone exchange was what they relied on. She was the operator. It was her habit to listen in on all calls being made through her switchboard. Beyond the business calls, most of which were quite dull, she loved conversations. It was these person to person chats that she enjoyed most. She would get an even greater kick out of telling her friends what she had heard.

Unhappily, this source of ongoing entertainment could only last so long. In the fullness of time, she became aware of the fact that after passing all this on to all of her friends, their numbers began to dwindle. It transpired that without recognising what this trend could bring about, she ended up in a situation where she no longer had any friends left in the town. In fact, she could tell that there was a growing movement to have her removed. When the time of her dismissal came she received no support from the community.

As a result she moved to a nearby town where she found work as an office cleaner. It wasn’t at all satisfying. It so happened that this town also had no mobile coverage. So, she applied for work at the exchange.

She never heard back.

In the operating theatre a young girl is fighting for her life.

Those in there with her are doing the same. Outside, further along the corridor and in the waiting room, a mother sits and waits. She sits in a far corner with a handkerchief pressed to her face. Music seeps into the room through a tiny speaker. It is just audible. It is classical. Wind instruments sounding against each other in a duet. A flute and a bassoon. They are competing. The flute, with its high, merrily tripping notes. The bassoon, with a deeper, more foreboding register. There is antagonism in the piece. These two instruments are at odds. The flute, ascending and offering hope. The bassoon, gravely warning of dire consequences. The battle rages as the mother sits.

On the table, a girl. An innocent victim of a careless driver. Nobody meant it to happen. In the theatre, all there are hoping to save a life. It is what they do. There is no music playing in there. Any struggle between life and death stays in the heads of those present. They do not need music to prompt the saving of a life. A machine gives a slow steady thump to beat time, giving no more melody than a metronome. In their heads they are all marking time.

The music plays on for the mother. The bassoon, ominous. The flute, striving for better things.

Hours pass before the swish of the doors are heard from the end of the hall.

The soft harmony of the flute prevails, as the surgeon comes forward with a smile.

 

She was waiting for him to text her.

The night before, they’d had a terrible row, and it was made worse by the fact that it had all been about nothing. It was probably all her fault, when she came to think about it. From the moment she got up the next morning she was listening out for the message tone she had on her phone. It was a single high pitched bell. It was amazing how many things sounded just like it. In her kitchen that morning, as she was preparing her cereal, she kept hearing sounds that could be it, and had kept checking to see whether anything had been sent. Her anxiety was growing. On the bus, going in to work she was surrounded by other people’s phones making sounds that had her frantically checking for a message. In the office, it was more of the same. All through the day she was responding to false alarms. More and more she was experiencing feelings of despair and guilt. She was frantic, waiting for something… anything!

Finally, in the evening he called her. He apologised sincerely for not getting back to her sooner. His day had been really hectic and he had to work overtime. He had lost his phone on the way in to work that day, probably on the bus. He had just got in and was calling from his parents’ home phone. He asked her if she’d been worried about not hearing from him.

“Not at all,” she said.

He watched the receding spire of the house of God through the back window of the taxi.

In some strange way, the young man was convinced that he would not be returning. All this was happening within a few short weeks of receiving Holy Orders. Even to himself, he couldn’t explain how he’d become overwhelmed by his devotion; how he had come to the realisation that this was not his calling. For him the sole searching was over. The struggle between the customs, rituals and liturgy of the church and his desire to go out into the world, was over. He knew he needed time to reflect; to find somewhere quiet to analyse the past and to plan the future. He would give himself time. In his heart, he felt sure that the Almighty would understand.

Now, some distance from his place of birth, he managed to find temporary accommodation above a seedy wine bar in a small village. After a meagre meal, he went up to his room and climbed into bed. He made himself comfortable and spent a long time considering his situation before finally falling asleep.

It had been around two in the morning when he was brought out of his sleep by a commotion out in the hallway. There was a great deal of noise, with several voices and a woman wailing. He laid there listening to the drama unfold.

He had no way of knowing that within the hour, the young girl in the next room would give birth to the antichrist…

He was out in the garden again, collecting leaves.

Well, not exactly collecting, but measuring. There again, measuring isn’t the right word either, grading is more like it. Grading the various green colours of leaves. He was certainly spoiled for choice, there were so many of them. They varied from the very pale green through to the very dark. He had gathered his latest pile and was sitting cross-legged with them in front of him. He studied the collection with interest before sorting the dozen or so samples into a row in front of him. He looked at each leaf very carefully before placing it down in its proper place. He then took the sticky tape out of his pocket and, pulling out a long length of it, placed it carefully over the row of samples. Holding one end, he stood up. With his latest leaves dangling beside him, he went back into the house.

In his room, on the largest bare wall, he added the strip. Although confused about what he was actually doing, his parents had given permission for this. The wall was almost entirely covered with these strips.

Although pleased to see that there son had been able to occupy himself, while at the same time apparently gaining a great deal of enjoyment from doing it, they had doubts about how normal this behaviour was for a three-year-old.