Author: Alexander Fawn

She was struggling with some of her school work.

She came home with a school report. Her day hadn’t been good, but she found a letter waiting for her when she got home. She was looking forward to reading it. It was sure to cheer her up.

Her mother sat looking at her report card shaking her head. The youngster was never any good with numbers, so trying to remember the dates of historical events, like battles and the reigns of kings and queens, was a major problem for her. Her mother wasn’t happy with her poor results. She was told to go to her room and study for next week’s test.

After a while she called out, “Mum. You know you said that getting dates wrong was never a good thing?”

“I do, of course, yes.”

“My letter from my pen pal in America has a problem with the stamp.”

“Oh. Yes?”

“Yes. The year showing on the stamp; it’s so wrong.”

“Wrong, dear?” She came into her room. “Show me.”

“It has next year’s date in the corner. We haven’t got their yet.”

“Well, I never! You’re right!” She thought for a minute. “This could be worth a lot of money.”

In an instant, her mother was happy to be made wrong.

The traveller emerged from his time machine.

The machine itself was built in the form of a small armchair. It had a hood at the back that could be pulled over the person sitting, much like those used in convertible sports cars. The inside of this hood had a small flat screen with a series of dials and switches beneath, for time navigation purposes. However, all this clever instrumentation was of little help on this occasion. He now had no idea where he was. The time indication display had gone blank moments before the chair stopped shuddering, letting him know it was no longer moving through time. He switched on the power cell charging unit. The screen remained blank, telling him nothing of his where or when. The recharging would take several minutes.

He slowly lifted the hood and looked around. There was hardly enough light to see much, but he sensed he was in a room. He took a pencil torch from his pocket and scanned his surroundings. It looked as though he’d landed in somebody’s drawing room. It looked dated somehow, probably Victorian. He found a light switch. He stood looking around. He wondered about the sort of people who lived here, it was certainly a very nicely appointed room. There was an ornate free-standing privacy screen in the corner, which he opened up and placed around his time machine. He was admiring the design on its panels when the door opened. A frustrated looking man with a clipboard came in.

“Oh! You came today!” He looked at his clipboard. “You’re the guy here to do some measuring, I presume?”

He hesitated, “Eh. Yes.”

“OK. What’s your name?”

Without hesitation, he replied, “Ernest.”

The other raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

The time traveller had the feeling that things were about to go bad for him. “Well, yes it is. Why, is that important?”

The other went wide-eyed for a moment, then he burst out laughing. When he finally managed to recover his self-control, he said, “OK, very good, but you need to be out of here shortly. We start shooting in ten minutes.”

“Shooting?” He asked.

As he left, the man said, “Yes, ten minutes.”

As quickly as he could, he moved the screen back, dropped into his chair, checked that everything was fully charged and programed his return to the basement of his home. It was there, with all his equipment working that he was able to determine where and when he’d been.

It turned out that at that precise location and time he’d been in a television company’s recording studio. He’d been on the set of the drawing room, where they were about to film act three of ‘The Importance of Being Earnest’.

The story began to write a story.

This was most unusual. It flailed around looking for a subject. It suddenly occurred to it that the writer usually wrote the story, and that being the case, why couldn’t the story write a story about the writer? Straight away it realised that it knew very little about the writer. It knew from its personal experience of watching stories being written that the writer needed to have a firm grip on the subject to create a good story. So, it decided to hold off for a while until it was able to observe the writer, writing.

Unfortunately, the writer couldn’t come up with a subject to write about. This meant that the writer didn’t write a story, leaving the story with nothing to write about. This, in itself was a disappointment, but having often witnessed the writer experiencing the same lack of subject matter, it didn’t feel so bad about it.

In fact, it decided that the story should stick to what it was, a story.

They had run out of milk and she suggested he try the fridge in the shed.

Neither of them were at all hopeful, as they couldn’t remember the last time they’d used it. She was sure that it had a carton of long-life in there, not opened. He went looking. The first thing he saw was the door sitting partly open. Not a good sign. As he approached, he noticed that there was no light on inside. Obviously the power supply had fused or something. He’d look anyway. When he opened up he found a family of mice, all gathered around a large plate. There they were, mum, dad and two little ones. In its centre stood a large block of cheese with much of its plastic wrapping peeled away. Scattered around the plate’s rim were dozens of tiny cheese crumbs. This had been deliberately managed so that the family could take up their allotted crouching spots and eat in relative comfort.

He was immediately impressed. It all looked so terribly civilised, he thought. He couldn’t help thinking about lunch time in the canteen at his place of work. The elbow-jostling queues lining up with plates being held out for food to be served.

One of the mice, he took it to be the father of the brood, looked up and appeared to wink.

He returned the door to where he’d found it and made his way out quietly.

Outside, he realised that he hadn’t even looked for the milk. Never mind, he thought, if there was any in there, they would need it. After all, they were a growing family…

The elderly patient in Ward 7C was extremely popular.

She was always very polite. Whenever she needed to press the bell for attention, she would apologise for the inconvenience the moment they appeared. Everything they did for her was greeted with a sincere thank you. She was so nice that out at the nurse’s station they would fight over who would go to her.

When the small group of doctors came making their rounds she apologised for there not being enough chairs. Each time she was asked a question, she would answer very politely, followed by a thank you. When the wooden paddle was placed on her tongue, or when her pulse was checked, or when they shined a light in her eyes, she would apologise if she saw the slightest hint of dissatisfaction on any of their faces. She apologised for being unable to offer them tea or coffee.

When they had finished she made a point of thanking them all once more when she said goodbye. As they left she called out that they should feel free to visit again anytime they wanted to.

Whereas the nurses loved the old dear and accepted her for what she was, the doctors held suspicions that she was taking the mickey…

They met in a quiet bar in the city.

He was smartly dressed in a suit, having worked late and had come straight from the office. She was wearing a skirt and blouse, having gone home and changed before coming out. Neither of them were shy, exactly, but both had quiet temperaments. It just so happened that they were sitting next to one another at the bar. They both couldn’t help noticing that they had the same drink. This got them chatting about cocktails and how important it was to get the ratios of ingredients right, especially when making a Blood and Sand; particularly the quantity of orange juice. They then went on to talk about other things. Things they liked and those they didn’t. This was how they quickly discovered that they had so many things in common.

They seemed to share the same interests and tastes in favourite household pets, movies, food, travel, sport, reading music, and so much more. The two hours slipped away while neither of them noticed. Then, there was that magical moment when the music that had been playing softly in the background moved on to the next track. Their eyes met instantly and they both knew immediately that this was their favourite song! They just had so much in common.

Another thing they had in common was the fact that they had both made the exact same and really huge mistake in their lives.

They had both married other people.

Overhearing a conversation in his local pub started it all.

Of course, he wasn’t meant to, but the two men sounded so excited about something and he couldn’t help himself. He just happened to be sitting around the corner from them at a single table. They obviously didn’t know he was there. He turned his head slightly and found that he could hear just about everything they said, despite the fact that they were keeping their voices low. He found it rather intriguing. Whenever the word ‘molodishms’ was used, their voices would drop to nothing more than a whisper. He supposed that it was probably another bit of technobabble. They were saying that a lot of money could be made.

As a result of falling on hard times, and struggling to find the money to visit the pub for a drink or two, he was keen to follow up on it. It was obvious that these guys knew a lot about the dark web. It seemed that the particular site they were talking about was buried deep inside the darkest corner of the darkest part of the dark web. It was all very complex and he couldn’t keep up with most of the technical jargon. The only thing he was sure of was the site’s name; it was Soulpact.

That night, he sat in front of his computer and began searching. He did his best to follow some of the pointers he had picked up, but he was well into the early hours before he found it. The site opened up with the front page carrying the single word Soulpact, in dark letters on an even darker background. Despite the hour, a thrill ran through him. He clicked on it and began reading.

It was some sort of commercial site that much was clear. People weren’t able to purchase anything, only sell. There was an extremely long form that a person had to fill out and send. Although he could hardly credit what he was looking at, the purpose of it was to confirm that he would sell his soul for the princely sum of five million dollars, to be deposited into a bank account nominated by him.

He sat or a long time thinking about it. Could this be real? If it was, it would solve all his problems. He spent the next half-hour filling out the form, but he decided he would have to mull it over further, before actually sending it. He would give it a day or two, or even a week. He needed to be sure he was making the right decision, but more important still, that this was the real deal.

He was about to shut down and make his way to bed, when a thought struck him. He was having an epiphany! He suddenly realised that the site was genuine. The word he had struggled to understand was not ‘molodishms’, but politicians!

He pressed send.

The two men had always had a strange relationship.

They had always enjoyed their time together. The main feature of their friendship being that neither had ever made any other living soul aware of the fact that they actually knew each other. One would normally think that this would be extremely difficult, but in fact they had managed it for some considerable time. Although this was the case, it was very likely that the situation was about to undergo a radical change. They were both around the same age and quite similar in looks, with the only noticeable difference being their heights. The day that this singular state of affairs came to a breaking point, was when the taller man put a question to the other that brought about several, long minutes of silence. Finally the reply came.

Short: “Why would you ask such a question?”

Tall: “Probably because I have wondered for some time now whether you were actually real?”

Short: “Yes, but what do you mean?”

Tall: “It’s simple really. I’ll ask you again, are you real or imaginary?”

Short: “Asking me again doesn’t help.”

Tall: “Let me put it this way. Haven’t you ever wondered whether I was real or imaginary?”

Short: “Not really. Why should I?”

Tall: “Oh! I don’t know. You must have had doubts.”

Short: “No, like I said, why should I?”

Tall: “Surely, you must have wondered.”

Short: “No never!”

Short was becoming really angry now. He’d never known his friend to act this way before. This was all too much for short. He got up and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Standing outside now, shaking with rage, a terrible thought occurred to him. Well, more of a question, really. Could the room behind him… be empty?

He turned the door knob…

Listen to the singing,

The singing of it all.

The happy and the sad of it,

Finding both large and small.

–

Beyond the realm of day and night,

Endless crescendos play.

A light amidst the darkness,

All barriers giving way.

–

The music of nature leads the way,

With such a complex list.

The endless pulse of its beating heart,

So much of it is missed.

–

Crawling across a forest floor,

Beneath a burning sun.

Melodies forming an ancient score,

Sound and music as one.

–

A singing of birds.

A flutter of wings.

Through the hollows of trees,

A muted flute sings.

An oboe of frogs.

A snare drum of rain.

A rustle of leaves,

All whispering in vain.

–

Out of the deepest silence,

Is every sound combined,

With all the songs that the world provides,

To permeate the mind.

–

Gather the tones that sail around,

The reverberations of the throng.

Mix them all in a balanced way,

For the singing of the song.

His wife was working late, again.

This was how it had to be for the time being. This was how they were surviving. His wage was very low; something she had complained about consistently for more than three years. In fact, ever since he got the job of parking lot attendant at the council buildings, she had never stopped talking about it. He was well and truly sick of it and had seriously considered taking off once or twice, but he figured he would probably end up worse off. Anyway, it was the extra overtime she was given from time to time that enabled them to put food on the table and little else. She never stopped reminding him of that either.

He was hardly aware of the front door opening. He’d been dozing in front of the television for over an hour and had obviously nodded off. On the screen, several numbered balls were running down tubes and lining up at the bottom. He instinctively went to his pocket and brought out his ticket. He did this quickly because he had never told her about his long time habit of buying them. Without her knowing, he had never stopped. He could hear her in the kitchen putting the kettle on; something she always did when she got in.

She was in there just long enough for him to match the numbers on his ticket with those that appeared on the screen. He put the ticket back in his pocket and tried some heavy breathing to get his nerves under control. Before she came in with her tea and her usual cold greeting, although he’d never regarded himself as any kind of actor, he would have to act naturally. He realised that until the matter was settled and the two point three million was fully confirmed, he would have to give the performance of his lifetime!