Author: Alexander Fawn

It took a while for him to come to terms with what he saw.

He was amazed to find that with just a little research, he had discovered that the definition in the dictionary was wrong! He supposed it could be partly explained by the fact that it dates back to the early seventeen hundreds, and a hell of a lot can happen over a few centuries, what with the ever-present existence of typos. The confusion had no doubt been quite understandably brought about by dint of the additional fact that it was derived from four separate Latin roots, and obscure ones at that!

It played on his mind.

The thing that bothered him most was not knowing who he should tell. Despite this, he began digging deeper, spending more time in the evenings after his daytime job sorting returned books in the local library. In a way, it was this daytime activity that first got him started. He would often see a book title that appealed, and of course he would end up reading it. For almost a decade he had been there, sorting, returning, finding, borrowing, reading, sorting, returning, and so on. It was all about words really. Millions of them. However, finding one that had been defined incorrectly was a real worry.

That’s when he started looking for more.

Over a period of several weeks, he discovered four more. A total of five words, all being attributed with erroneous meanings.

It was at this point his thoughts returned to the vexed question of who he should approach with what he had discovered. If he managed to find some high authority that oversees such things, would they just fob him off with the notion that the definition was written by an editor, and not a specialist in the discipline of whatever the word was trying to deal with? Moreover, could he find himself getting into a lot more trouble than he wanted?

He considered going back to basics. He could start by going to the Chief Librarian. A pompous man, who had never really liked the way he had borrowed more books from the library that any of the other members in the library’s database. What would the man say, being confronted with something that had such extensive ramifications?

He began to think about how truly extensive all this really was.

When he considered how English speaking, writing and using people, had managed quite well with what was, after all, one of the most difficult and complex languages in the world, he had to ask himself, if these minor issues he had uncovered had not caused even a ripple over the centuries, was it worth risking his present situation? Did he want to risk his heart’s contentment, and place his nice little niche in jeopardy?

At the end of the day, he had to ask himself, was it better for him to maintain his regular, paid employment of sorting returns and reading as many books as he liked?

After careful thought, he was pleased when he answered with a resounding ‘yes’.

He put himself at peace with the concept that the world would never know.

He woke well before his alarm, in a cold sweat.

He was having trouble getting out of the dream that seemed to have gone on all night, but at the same time feeling compelled to bring the details of it back for him to look at. After laying quite still with his eyes closed for some time, he remembered how it had started with a dreadful argument. To be precise, it began with an unexpected visitor showing up during the evening. He couldn’t remember who it was, someone from the past or a complete stranger? He just couldn’t tell. Somehow they knew he’d be on his own, knew that she was visiting her sister’s family for a couple of days.

The visitor had brought a full bottle of twelve-year-old Scotch whisky. In the dream they had slowly got drunk together. The way it was coming back to him made it all seem so reasonable, but that’s the way dreams are. They had just about finished the bottle when the visitor explained that several years back he had poisoned his dog. He said it was waking people up in the middle of the night and it got to the point where he just couldn’t take it anymore. In his dream, everything came across as perfectly reasonable, but somehow it all went downhill fast.

In fact, a fight broke out.

Bringing it all back was becoming more difficult to think about, but the brawl had ended up in the kitchen where he had grabbed a carving knife and stabbed the man! He was there, on the kitchen floor, bleeding. After a long state of panic, he checked for a pulse. There wasn’t one. Then, he opened the kitchen door and dragged the body down the side of the house, leaving it beside the dustbins. There it ended. The dream ended. Shuddering and still bathed in sweat he opened his eyes. He looked at the clock. He still had more than an hour before his wake up alarm.

He got up and went into the bathroom. A splash of cold water was what was needed.

The first thing he noticed was the blood on his hands. Then, in the mirror, bruising around his face, together with blood smears. Panic took hold and he ran to the kitchen, where he found blood, lots of it! The kitchen, yes, it all came flooding back so vividly now. He went out to the bins, where he found the body, just where he had left it. He was bending over the body when he was startled by a voice, right near his ear. He spun around, peering into the dark. He couldn’t see anything. It came again, this time louder.

“What is it?” she repeated.

He slowly turned to face her.

“What is it, dear?” she went on, “You’ve been grunting a lot. Are you alright?”

He sighed with a great sense of relief, and looked at the clock. Still nowhere near time to get up.

“Who was grunting?” he said.

“You, of course,” she said.

“No. Go back to sleep. You were probably dreaming,” he said, smiling.

There was only one left on the plate.

“Go on, you can have it,” said the man in the tweed jacket.

Obviously taken by surprise, the curly-haired youth turned. “No. That’s fine. I’ve probably gobbled down three or four. I just love ’em, I suppose.”

Tweed smiled. “Me too. Anyway, go ahead, it’s all yours.”

The morning tea put on by the local golf club was all but over with people making their way back out to the car park.

Curly shook his head. “No, really, I shouldn’t eat any more.”

Tweed said, “It seems a shame to let it go to waste.”

Neither of them looked at the solitary party-pie on the paper plate.

“I’m full, but thanks,” said curly, starting to feel awkward.

Tweed looked around at the place, almost empty, with just a few people tidying up. “Someone needs to eat it. If not us, it looks like nobody will.”

They both stood, not saying anything for a long moment. A clattering of chairs being gathered echoed through the hall.

Tweed broke the silence. “Do you play?”

“Play?”

Tweed raised an eyebrow. “You know, golf. Do you play golf?”

“Oh! No. I just help out in the kitchen sometimes with my mother.” He looks down at the plate and smiles. “She makes ‘em.”

“Well, now,” says tweed, clapping his hands, “that’s why they taste so good! Homemade pies, baked by your mother.” He chuckled.

Curly grinned and nodded.

“Now then,” said Tweed, taking on an air of authority, “your mother would be really upset if she knew that one of her pies was thrown out… because you didn’t eat it.”

Curly shrugged and picked it up.

As Tweed made his way across the car park to his car, he mumbled, “I don’t know, the kids of today, they’re so bloody selfish!”

She checked herself over in the bedroom mirror for the last time.

As she opened the front door, she looked back and called out, “We need milk. Won’t be long…” She giggled at the silliness of it. There was no ‘we’, and no milk was needed, and she certainly would be gone for the longest time. The rest of her life in fact. It was all part of her radical plan.

Had there been anyone around they wouldn’t have noticed that she didn’t use the car. Instead, wheeling her case, she walked idly for a few minutes then caught a bus into town.

Who would really miss her? Her few remaining relations that she hardly ever saw; her boss and her workmates, her nearby neighbours, the man who serviced her car, her hairdresser, the checkout ladies in the supermarket…? No. Nobody really. She would just disappear. The rent was paid up for a month. She would become just another woman in her late twenties slipping through the cracks; just one more missing person. She had never been bothered about romantic attachments; a quiet, private life had always suited her.

In the high street she walked straight past the supermarket. No milk required. She grinned again. She entered the railway station and went directly to the ladies toilet and found an empty cubicle. There, she opened the case, and with the aid of a small mirror went about changing her appearance. Clothes, wig and makeup. She had decided to do this to lessen the chance of recognition, although she knew it wasn’t necessary, just something to spice up the drama of it all. This done she went to the departure board and checked the times.

First the train to the city, then a cab to the airport. Everything pre-booked, prepaid, pre-everything. There was no real need for her to pay for a very expensive false passport, but she did it anyway. Money was not an issue. Even the apartment on Paradise Island in the Bahamas had been purchased more than a year ago.

Splayed out comfortably in her first class seat, watching cloud formations move gradually below, she thought back to where it all began. An auntie she hardly knew. She had passed away leaving her money. Not a lot. It was nice to receive it, but she didn’t need it at the time. So, she invested it. Wow! Did she ever invest it! All of that was a mere dozen years ago. From the third year of watching her account shoot skywards, she started planning. Her deliberations were as private as her investment was anonymous.

As she finished her Pina Colada she whispered into her empty glass, “Ah! Cryptocurrency!”

He is completely unaware of what is about to happen.

He’d never been a fan of DIY. His Aunty had ordered the new piece of furniture without a moment’s thought given to how it would be assembled. It had been delivered in an enormous flat pack of innocent looking cardboard. It was inevitable that she would give him a call. Hey! Blood is thicker than water, right?

Little does he know that it would happen with the last blow of the hammer!

At least she had agreed to keep out of his way. He couldn’t give a lot of time to it. His cousin was picking him up from his place in a couple of hours and taking him to the big game. His cousin had acquired really good seats.

Little does he know that his scream would bring his Aunty rushing wide-eyed into the room.

He had read through the instructions provided on the tiny piece of folded paper, typed in some miniature font he had not come across, hiding at the bottom of the box. It really didn’t tell him much, other than the fact that whoever wrote it did not enjoy English as their first language.

Little does he know that the ambulance would take so long to arrive because of the massive pile up on the freeway.

Why was it taking so long to put this thing together? He was becoming more and more aware of how late it was getting. He was becoming more and more frustrated. The hammer was pounding harder with each strike.

Little does he know that he would be looking up at the smug expression of a smartarse doctor, twiddling his stethoscope and mumbling something about how some things are best left to a qualified tradesman.

He was fixing the last section of the bookcase when it happened.

It wasn’t quite there.

Little does he know that no one in the known universe had ever figured out how to avoid the inevitable.

One good hammer blow should do it.

There was a strong prediction about the upcoming event.

After receiving the text messages, all three of them were winding their way through the streets of the suburb. The nights were coming on early and it was getting dark soon after their tea times. They all felt the excitement. The boys had been learning about the birthing process at school and they had known the event was at hand.

They had been walking for some time when they came to their friend’s street. The house was halfway up the long street, but it was easy to find because of the bright street lamp right in front of the house. He was standing there, under the street lamp, waiting for his friends. After greetings they wandered down the side of the house and into the back garden. As they crossed the tiny lawn they could see a dim light coming from the shed.

Their friend pushed the door open slowly and they filed in. They all showed a high degree of reverence as they entered. There was nothing fancy about it. It was dimly lit with only one small, bare globe. Each of them came bearing a gift.

One had brought an apple, picked from a tree in his garden.

One had brought some lettuce leaves his mother gave him, in a plastic bag.

One had brought some baby carrots his father had pulled up and washed for him.

A very large cardboard box, lined with a layer of hay, sat in the back corner. They all moved forward slowly and peered in.

The mother rabbit was laying on her side looking up. The newborn was curled and tucked against her belly.

One by one, the boys laid their gifts down along the inside of the box.

That night, in the shed, the three visitors knew with unspoken certainty that they were witnessing a very special event.

He was just thinking out loud, really.

“Just imagine,” he says, staring across at the rows of books, mainly works on psychology, that filled the floor-to-ceiling bookcase, “if one, anyone really, were to attain the absolute pinnacle of intellectual ability; could one then make an uncompromised comparison between any states of being?”

He looks at his companion with raised eyebrows.

“Of course,” he continues, “we are looking at the highest possible state of conscious functioning here, one that would provide such a raised level of awareness. For instance, there is a man, caught in the act of robbery, who is forced through this circumstance, to shoot the approaching nightwatchman. At that moment, he is not only responsible for his actions, but more importantly he is responsible for his own being. Consider the moment.”

He steeples his old fingers under his nose.

“There is, of course, the euphoria felt by the music student, after listening to a piece by Mozart played in concert. After, he will sit for a moment. Consider this moment.”

The thinker sits further back in his chair, as though comfort provided clearer thinking.

“Now look at the case of the dying woman, being told by the surgeon that she has an incurable genetic disease. A different moment you might think, but reflect on that tick of the clock, if you please.”

His friend says nothing.

“What of the soldier, home on leave, embracing his loved-one at the airport? What of that moment?”

He nods to himself.

“Or the couple returning home late, only to find their house on fire.”

Momentarily, he loses himself in the volumes of knowledge resting on their shelves.

“What of the thrill,” he goes on, “felt by discovering a special painting in an art gallery, or the fear of being almost hit by a speeding car while crossing the road, or the sadness of hearing of a friend’s suicide, or the pleasure of watching a bird build its nest, or the despair of losing one’s job, or the joy of witnessing the first bloom of a flower, planted in the back garden. What of any of this. What of all those individual moments.”

He stares again at the rows of coloured spines, slightly regretful that none of them are his.

“Do you see? All these accumulated moments, in the great scheme of things… are they not just what they are? Simply moments?”

House-sitting for his son has been a pleasure for him. He was so pleased they could both come. He looks down at his companion.

“What do you think?”

The cat squeaks and licks itself.

He nods and thinks it’s truly amazing just how intelligent this creature is.

It was an ordinary enough room, except for the clocks.

On that particular evening, the visitor felt quite honoured to be invited into the retired professor’s study, and when the first clock caught his eye, a large dinner plate with a knife and fork for hands, he found himself looking around for more. The professor sat behind his desk grinning.

“Um, you don’t mind do you?” asked the visitor, suddenly aware of his snooping around.

“Not at all. Let’s see what you make of them.”

He counted seven of them, all having quite bizarre designs and all showing different times. He studied each of the remainder. One had dominoes for the hours, others had the hour and minute hands set on a dartboard, a large cog, a slice of toast, a fried egg and an eyeball. He also noticed that each of them had small labels, some green and some red. They each had a number. The smallest was ‘two’ and the largest, ‘seventeen’. Knowing that the owner of these queer wall pieces was, at one time, a mathematics professor, he knew that they had to mean something, but he couldn’t’ figure out what that something could be.

He was jolted out of his musings by the other’s question.

“Well, what do you think?”

“OK. Well, as far as I can see, all of these rather unusual looking clocks show different times, although none of them would be too far out.” With that his hand went to his pocket, knowing that his phone would tell him what time it actually was.

“No!” the other exclaimed. “Preferred it if you didn’t. That would be counterproductive, don’t you think?”

“Counterproductive?”

“Yes, it would go against the aim of the thing.”

“The aim? What exactly is the aim?”

The professor smiled. “To tell the time, of course.”

The visitor looked back at the clocks.

“Notice anything else?” the professor asked, hoping for more.

“I did note the labels of course.” He moved forward to study one of them. “This one for instance. The label is red and has the number four.” He paused. “This could mean that it’s four minutes slow, I suppose.”

“Bravo!” The professor clapped. “Yes, indeed! Red for slow and green for fast.”

“Does that help you to tell the time?”

“Oh! Yes,” cam the enthusiastic reply, “but you do need the formula.”

The visitor stared around the room. “Yes, you would have to have a formula.”

“Actually,” the professor went on, “it’s more of an algorithm. It’s just a simple procedure for solving a mathematical problem, as you know. Can I show you?”

The visitor sat down at the desk while the other produced a sheet of paper. The visitor studied the words and symbols neatly set out in a numbered list.

After a minute or two, the professor said, “Care to try it? You need to wait until they all tick over. They are all set to the world clock by the way. Then you jot them all down quickly, remembering you have sixty seconds to do it. When that’s done, you just use the algorithm. Simple!”

Intrigued, but at the same time uncertain about whether he could remember enough to apply the formula, said with caution in his tone, “I’ll have a crack at it, if you like.”

The other beamed. “Good man.” Handing him a small notepad and pen, he said, “When you’re ready.”

The visitor stood, silently waiting for all of the clocks to tick. All minute hands jumped in unison and he quickly recorded all of the times.

He sat back down.

It took some time to work it all out, using the algorithm provided. Finally, noting the original time of the closest clock, he calculated how much time had passed and adjusted his answer to bring it to the present time. His answer was 08:14. He handed the notebook to the professor, who quickly went through his figures and calculations.

The professor reached across the table and extended his hand, saying, “Well done, I concur.”

At that moment, the visitor only just heard a single, soft chime from somewhere behind him. The professor, still looking over the figures, didn’t seem to notice it. When he looked back, the visitor spotted a high yet narrow door, in the corner of the room. The professor looked up and saw the other staring at it.

His visitor pointed to it.

“Ah! That, yes, well, I rarely open that,” said the professor.

Consumed with curiosity, the visitor said, “May I?”

The professor nodded reluctantly.

When the visitor opened the door he found a grandfather clock that had just struck 08:15.

The visitor stood confused for a moment before turning back, saying, “Sorry, but I can’t help asking. What’s it doing in here?”

The professor looked rather sheepish, he said, “That’s my backup.”

As he entered the hospital he looked for the enquiry desk.

He got directions and made his way through to the ward. He thought it only decent to pay the old man a quick visit, him being a neighbour. He found the patient. He didn’t look happy.

The visitor smiled and said, “Hello there. How are you?”

“Sick; what do you think?” came the reply.

Taken aback, the visitor said, “Well, yes. I heard you were here, so I thought I’d just pop in for a bit.”

The patient frowned up at him. “Who are you anyway; don’t recognise you.”

“I’m from number ten, just across the road from you.”

“Oh! Number ten you say. You’re the one with the noisy lawnmower.”

“Well, I wouldn’t call it particularly noisy.”

“I would. Must be something wrong with your hearing if you think that.”

“Anyway, how are they treating you? I‘ve heard that this is a very good hospital.”

“Ha! You’ve been listening to the wrong people.”

“Not happy with the service then?”

“Service! You’ve got to be joking. Bloody slippers went missing the first day; I think they were pinched.”

“That’s not good. Did you report it?”

“Of course I did. Tried to tell the kid with freckles, she’s the noisy one, always clanging things together, she is. Tried to tell her someone had made off with them, but she wouldn’t listen. Kept telling me they’d turn up.”

“Yes, but I’m sure they’re giving you the proper attention.”

“Attention? One minute these buggers are coming in every five minutes. They just barge in when they feel like it. The next minute it all goes as quiet as a grave. When that happens, when they’re all on their break, you can press the button as hard as you like, but nobody comes.”

“I suppose they do get busy. Anyway, what did the doctor say?”

The other squirmed around and said, “Got me name wrong, didn’t he?”

“Oh! Sorry to hear that, but what did he tell you?”

“No idea what he said. He just stood there going on and on; didn’t understand a word of what he was saying. When he was finished rabbiting on, I told him there was an ‘orrible pong in the bathroom, asked if he could get someone to at least squirt something in there. Before he left I told him that the TV remote doesn’t work properly. Haven’t seen him since.”

At this point, the visitor felt that he had been there long enough. He said, “Well, I’ll be off now. Do you need anything?”

The patient said, “A new pancreas would be good.”

On his way out the visitor thought it was good that the patient hadn’t lost his sense of humour.

At least, he thought it was humour.

They hired one of the country’s top mediums to settle the case once and for all.

The multi-millionaire real estate tycoon had been found dead in his study, shot at close range. Both the son and daughter were prime suspects. It was common knowledge that they both felt they had never received decent allowances and there had been several cases where the details of these disagreements had gone public.

The son didn’t attend as he didn’t believe in séances. With their mother dying in a freak accident several months before, the daughter was the only remaining family member to attend.

In the dim light of the flickering candle she whispered in the medium’s ear, “One million cash. Unmarked notes. Delivered here tomorrow night.”

The medium drew in a sharp breath.

“Oh! I see it now. He’s saying, ‘Son, no son, you don’t have to do this.’”