Author: Alexander Fawn

From day one, she didn’t like his cat.

She thought it was fat and lazy. She tried to stroke it a couple of times, but it just hissed at her. On the other hand, he was very fond of it. He’d had it from the time it was a starving kitten. It had been abandoned, just a scraggy tom cat mooching around the neighbourhood streets. He saw it several times, most times it was looking for food around the dumpsters behind the cafe. Eventually, he took it in and fed it. It had been his companion ever since. It was very affectionate and he couldn’t imagine getting rid of it.

The whole thing came to a head one evening. He was sitting in the lounge reading when she stormed in.

He looked up from his newspaper. “What now?”

“It’s your cat, that’s what!”

He closed his eyes and shook his head. “OK. What’s he done?”

“He peed on my best jumper! Want to smell it?” She held it up. “No, I didn’t think so. It smells absolutely disgusting. I’ve no idea how I’m going to get the stink out.”

He said, “Wow! That’s amazing.”

Her face reddened. “Why is that amazing?”

“Because he’s never done that on any bit of clothing I’ve left out. In fact, he usually curls up on it and goes to sleep.”

At this, she balled the jumper up and threw it at him. It missed.

She put her hands on her hips and said, “That’s it! You really have to choose now, because one of us has to go!”

He looked at the cat, curled up on the rug and frowned.

He got up and went to the cupboard under the stairs, took the shoebox down from the top shelf and opened it.

He returned to the lounge and shot her.

The young man had always felt personally threatened by storms.

He had often been told how silly the idea was by just about everyone that found out about it. People would point out that it was only an aspect of nature and in no way was it directed at an individual. Everyone, that is, except his father, who had used his fear of storms to discipline him saying that it was sent to admonish him for not doing his homework or for having an untidy bedroom or any other thing he could think of at the time.

This night, the storm that raged outside with its bright flashes and deafening thunderclaps seemed to be testimony to his beliefs.

The knife, his bloody hands and his father’s body had made the raging tempest particularly angry with him.

She came out of nowhere.

He’d just got off the bus in the middle of town when it happened. It was embarrassing, standing there cuddling, with pedestrians eyeing them as they stepped around them. She stepped back. “You remember me, don’t you? The party last year…” she waited.

“Of course,” he lied. She was quite a stunner.

“I’m so glad we bumped into each other again,” she said, her eyes flashing bright and her lips pursing.”

–

The writer put down his pen. He had scribbled these lines weeks ago. He was stuck. Each time he came back to them, nothing was added. He wondered where it was going to from here. He had thought of a number of possibilities.

Did she hiccup and say that she was sorry, that she’d been drinking, probably too much, then quickly walked away?

Maybe she stood back and squinted, then put her glasses on and apologised for having the wrong person?

Was she embarrassed and excused her behaviour on the basis that the medication she was taking was messing with her head?

At that point, did a group of people nearby start giggling, which caused her to admit she had done it as a dare?

Could it be that the girl had lifted his wallet when they cuddled?

Was it the case that she simply laughed and apologised, saying that she’d always wanted to do that?

Maybe he should leave it unfinished. It could be a kind of cliff hanger, allowing the reader to come up with an ending that suited them, according to their own taste.

What a cop-out!

The island was small, away from the mainland, secure, private and not talked about.

Well, within government circles it may get discussed by a very few. No governments like to advertise the sort of research that went on there. The development of robots for military purposes isn’t very nice at the best of times, but at this facility it was all about the delivery of highly toxic chemical agents designed to wipe out a great number of combatants quickly and with minimal human involvement. Robots were being built and programmed to do this very thing, and the relatively small group of scientists that lived and worked on the island needed a peaceful environment in which to design and construct their machines of death.

The island consisted of a large laboratory complex where thirty odd specialist scientists worked, and a small residential area where they were housed along with a small administration and maintenance staff. A population of around fifty that had very little contact with the outside world and were only visited once a year by a supply ship. As working groups go, their provisions were plentiful, their needs were met, and they lived in an environment of relative luxury. This would have stayed this way had it not been for two things. The first, being a frivolous decision and the second a failure in the matter of storage.

At a committee meeting it was decided that the contentious issue within the maintenance staff regarding who should be responsible for putting all of the dustbins out and bringing them in again should be resolved once and for all. Considering how many highly advanced test robots they had in storage, it would be easy to programme a group of these machines to operate on a daily schedule of keeping the entire complex free of rubbish, thereby resolving the issue. Within a few days these were programmed and put to work. All went well. The robots took out the bins, and the regular driverless trucks collected the rubbish and took it to the landfill site at the far end of the island. No human intervention was required. Whether all this came about as a welcome distraction from their more serious duties will never be known.

The second, and more important issue, was the storage of several large canisters of the project’s deadly poison that were held in a warehouse built for the purpose. The building was spacious enough to use as an assembly point for the robots that dealt with the rubbish. It was never considered that the weekly mass movement of robots coming and going on a weekly basis could vibrate and weaken the racks that held the canisters. However, it was on the third week of all this busy coming and going that one of the main legs of the rack system gave way, distorting the framework sufficiently to topple all canisters to the ground. Only three of the ten containers broke open, but this was enough; more than enough.

There was little wind that day, allowing the heavy, invisible and odourless gas to slowly but surely cover the entire island in an ankle-deep layer of deadly vapour that would be stirred by the early morning movements of the inhabitants;  those that were still alive. By mid-morning there was not a living soul on the island. As a result of the extremely virulent nature of this particular chemical agent all tissue and bone matter was reduced to dust inside of a week. Only piles of clothing remained.

The authorities on the mainland knew nothing of this for several weeks. When a complete lack of communication became a concern, a small patrol boat arrived and a party of security officers landed to make enquiries. The small team was quite safe, owing to the natural elements having dispersed the toxic agent within the first few days of the spill, but they were shocked by the devastating scene that confronted them. Not to mention the fact that a dedicated team of robots were observed to be diligently carrying out empty bins, that were tipped into an empty driverless truck, to be taken to the dump where it tipped its empty load onto an undisturbed rubbish site.

After the almighty explosion of glass and metal, he peered through the windscreen.

Driving without turning on your car lights on a wet winter’s night was never a good thing. The impact had really shaken him up. He didn’t feel well. The inside of his windscreen was fogging up and he looked around for something to wipe a hole in it. He found a sock. He wondered how it had got there. With a fierce belch, it came back to him. He’d had his son for the weekend. The silly cow had complained about returning him fifteen minutes late. He grinned at the thought of her hunting around looking for his other sock. Meanwhile, he used it to wipe a clear patch. The vehicle in front was sitting sideways, and he was just able to make out the word ‘Police’.

The man chuckled as he watched the burly occupant hammer the inside of the car’s door frame. The officer was obviously trying to get out. The door would only open enough to get a couple of fingers through. The rasping and creaking of it reminded him of the time he caught his son trying unsuccessfully to jimmy open his locked tool box. The little bugger wouldn’t tell him how he knew he kept his supply of drugs for his pushers in there. He wasn’t a bad kid really; just a bit of larceny and the odd grievous bodily harm. He chuckled to himself again, with a sense of pride. It was the sort of thing any kid of twelve would get up to.

He leaned forward and smirked as he took note that the driver still couldn’t get out. His partner seemed to be slumped over somehow. That side of the vehicle was jammed up against a wall. It had no doubt been pushed there by his vehicle bearing down on it. He wondered whether he would get the blame for any of this. Probably! It was always the same, the smallest thing goes wrong and the finger gets pointed at him. Like the failed marriage; when in fact no part of it was down to him. It was her fault that he’d lost his licence to drive over a year ago. That’s why the car was not registered or insured. She had so much to answer for. He had a good mind to go round there…

He was brought out of his reverie by a loud tap on his window. He wound the window down slowly. “You managed to get out then?” He burped and grinned. “Whoops! What can I do for you, officer,” he said in a happy-go-lucky tone.

The policeman was looking weary, from braking out of the damaged police car, and naturally anxious about his partner, who was still unconscious. He kept his composure and made his request in a professional manner. “Would you mind stepping out of the car, sir?”

He pushed the door open and fell out, then clambered to his feet and leant against the car. He sighed deeply, sending out a cloud of invisible yet pungent alcohol fumes. The sound of an ambulance was growing louder.

In a more severe voice, the officer asked, “Have you been drinking, sir?”

His head wobbled around before he said “Nah.”

“It’s my duty to check your alcohol level but…”

He was interrupted by the ambulance screeching to a halt.

“As I was saying,” he went on stoically, “it is my duty to breathalyse you, but my vehicle is not available to me at present.” He looked back at his vehicle.

The other belched and said, “Sorry to hear that.”

“Yes. Well, we’ll get you to the station shortly. It might be best if you get back in your car and wait, sir.”

As he climbed back in, he saw another emergency vehicle pull up. He sat there thinking. He always tried to do the right thing, didn’t he? That was his nature. He watched the guy get out the jaws-of-life equipment. He’d probably get the blame for this too. Being known to the police, they’re bound to search the car. They’re sure to find the drugs. It’s not his fault that his regular pub closed early. Nobody could blame him for putting his foot down a little in order to make it to a pub that was still open. He looked outside. The rain had started again. It was the weather that caused it.

Surely, nobody could blame him for that!

When he got home he was still thinking about his strange encounter.

He had got off the train, still mentally working on a crossword clue that he hadn’t been able to solve, and he was on his way to the bus stop when he was approached by the young man. Quite out of the blue he had asked if he had time. If he hadn’t been trying to solve eleven across, he might have noticed the way the stranger had asked the question. Anyway, naturally enough he pulled out his phone and told him the time. The reaction to this was perplexing. The other replied with the statement; “No, not the time, just time.” What was he expecting or better still, what did he want? If he wasn’t drunk or on drugs, what was he asking for? He seemed sane enough and quite lucid. More than anything, he wanted to understand the question.

He had a very strong feeling that the stranger’s question was important, but he didn’t know why…

He was only twelve, but he still missed his dad.

His mum never wanted to talk about it. He would always remember the shouting and the arguments that went on late into the night. He had a vivid memory of those tears that ran down his cheeks as he lay in bed listening to them. Later, he remembers his uncle telling him that his dad had gone away with the lady that used to work in the post office. He had remembered her clearly, when he was told about it. She seemed to be a nice lady. She had always said hello and smiled at him.

Then, a school friend said he had often seen him on a Saturday, walking a dog in the local park. He said he was sure it was him. That’s when he began walking through the park on a Saturday, in the hope that he’d see him again. It was a long time ago for him in his young life and he wondered if he would recognise him. He did this for several weeks before he saw him. It was him! He was walking a dog and coming towards him. He was so excited at the prospect of talking to him, even if it was only for a brief moment.

His dad was smiling as he approached. At that moment, from somewhere behind him a small voice cried out. He walked straight passed without even looking at him. The boy turned to see him as he manages to gather up the young child, and still holding the lead, walk away with the lady from the post office. That’s when those old tears started again.

Once more, those same tears from all that time ago, ran slowly down his cheeks.

The Chief Scientist and head of the DNA test laboratory made a startling discovery.

He was trawling through the animal test records when it occurred to him that the common house fly had never had its DNA catalogued. A few days later, having completed the tests, he was studying the results. He was confused by what he saw, so he carried out a second series in case they had not been done properly. The results came back the same. At a stretch, he considered what he was looking at was DNA, but its configuration was so strange that it was more like something he had read about. It was an article about tests that had been carried out on organic matter that had been found on the surface of an asteroid. He began to form the opinion that the common house fly may well have an unknown origin never before discovered.

He also went on to speculate that if these creatures were in fact alien, there purpose here on our planet could easily be to play the role of observer. It was hard to imagine a better way to maintain an ongoing programme of watching and evaluating a foreign species. If this was the case, it would be a simple yet exceptionally clever method of keeping track of the progress that mankind was making with respect to the planet and its wellbeing. Unhappily, it was during this moment of realisation that three flies unexpectedly landed on his desk. Slowly, they each turned to face him. It was at that moment he suffered a massive heart attack and dropped dead on the spot.

It was some years later that quite unexpectedly the Chief Scientist and head of the DNA test laboratory made a startling discovery…

Smoking on board was strictly forbidden.

Space travel had become pretty routine with ships flying regularly from planet to planet. He was just one of half-a-dozen technicians aboard the joint international supply company’s craft, sailing around the cosmos. He’d tried to give the habit up, time and time again; failed every time. The first few days in outer space were murder. He roamed the decks looking for a place to light up. Finally, he found a small room on C-deck that, despite smelling a bit off, gave him the privacy he needed. Considering the number of cigarettes he’d smuggled on board he could go there once a day until they landed on Phargus 9. You could smoke on Phargus 9.

He had just finished scraping the gunge off the filters in the main galley when he saw how late it was. Nicotine called. He made his way down to C-deck. Quiet as usual. It was always silent down there. He crept along the dimly lit passage. At the end, he silently worked the heavy lever, being careful not to touch the red fire-alarm button, and stepped inside.

It was only moments later that the cleaner strolled down the same corridor, checked the garbage disposal schedule on his hand-held screen and jabbed the button with his elbow.

There was no way on Earth, or in space for that matter, that he could know the Russian word for ‘Shute’.

The man at the corporation knew that client confidentiality was everything.

He was never happy when police authorities took an interest in his operations. There were very strict protocols to be followed when sending a customer back. The majority of them simply wanted to relive some precious, happy time. They just wanted to be there again when she married or he graduated. For some it was to relive a football match or to witness once more the finish of a boat race, or to enjoy the spectacle of some grand opening. All these things were possible after a strenuous vetting programme, a substantial fee and an understanding that they would be carefully chaperoned at all times to ensure that no interference with events that had already taken place could be interfered with or altered in any way. This indoctrination and training was rigorous and on occasions an immediate refund was made. The organisation could not allow mistakes.

The man waiting for the time specialist detective to arrive knew only too well that in the dozen or so years the Time Corporation’s Travel Agency had been providing their services there had been slipups, but nothing as big as this one. This particular twenty-four hour package was purchased by an extremely wealthy client who wanted to go back a couple of years to watch a sporting event. This had been perfectly straightforward with no concerns. What was a little unusual, although such cases had occurred, was the immediate follow up booking to be returned again, this time two weeks earlier. The client wanted to be there for an earlier game as a lead up to the final. This was all the man in the agency knew. If there had been any issues the police would know all about it.

When the detective arrived he got straight down to it. Apparently, there had been a major event scramble. He learned that there was a great deal of panic going on back at headquarters. After sending back several scouts to find out what had occurred to cause the scramble, the following came to light. The wealthy customer in question had returned with ill intent. Having been swindled by a crime boss a few years earlier, he had gone back with a plan to lose the chaperone and kill the man. However, on his arrival he learnt that his intended victim had had a heart attack and had died a few days before. This prompted the customer to make the second booking. Unfortunately for everyone, he also managed to give the second chaperone the slip and this time murder the man prior to his having a heart attack. To complicate things further, the perpetrator had managed to avoid making the return trip.

That all occurred just over a year ago. It’s still being worked on.

These event scrambles take a lot of fixing…