Author: Alexander Fawn

Something strange occurred during the night.

t had been a violent storm with a great deal of thunder and lightning. Nevertheless, they had both slept heavily through all of it. Several times bolts had struck the house, but without leaving visible damage. One of these seemed to light up their bedroom, as though it was filling the room with charge, but they both slept on. In the morning they found themselves up, dressed and ready for work without actually speaking to one another, although they felt that they had.

“Will you be home on time tonight?” she asked, without speaking.

“The auditors are still in, I might be asked to stay back… hope not,” he said, without speaking.

“Short day for me. Might shop this afternoon. If I have time, I can do one of those special casseroles you like,” she says with a smile, without speaking.

He watched her smile and smiled back, shaking his head. “You know we’re not actually speaking to each other, don’t you?” he said, without speaking.

“Yes,” she replied, without speaking.

“It all seems perfectly natural to me,” he says, without speaking.

“It does, doesn’t it?” she says, without speaking.

“Is this something we should be worrying about,” he asks, without speaking.

She shrugged. “Don’t see why, could come in handy.”

She said this without speaking.

He was a stranger in town, just killing time, wandering around looking in shop windows.

Off the main precinct, he came across an old bookshop that seemed to specialise in antique volumes. He’d always been fond of looking at really old books. He loved the smell and feel of them. He entered only to find no one behind the counter. Regardless, he started to stroll through the racks that went almost to the ceiling. He was amazed at the number of books the little shop held. At the end of the row, and at the very back of the shop, he came across a cabinet with a small sign that asked customers to take care when handling them as they were extremely old and quite fragile.

Naturally, he was excited to find what he regarded to be a treasure trove. He began reading the titles when he saw a leather-bound tome with an extraordinarily long title. It ran along sideways the complete length of the spine in tiny gold embossed lettering. He took it out carefully in order to read it. The title read: For the Eyes of the Few: the First Step towards a Proper Understanding of the True Reason that the Universe Exists.

What a fascinating title, he thought, as he turned it over. On the back he found that it had a blurb. This was unusual for such an old book. As he started to read it, he found it to be more of a caution than anything. It was laying down strict rules about who was permitted to read it. It stated that it was only recommended for those individuals that were fully qualified professional environmentalists who had played the cello in concerts that had been performed in at least three countries, out of work Pet Food Tasters with a working knowledge of Magnetic Resonance Imaging machines, and Professional Bridesmaids with a university degree in Dairy Herd Management. In bold print beneath, it read: These recommendations need to be strictly adhered to.

He shook his head with a chuckle and opened the book. He began to read the words: ‘In the beginning…’ at which point the book fell to the floor.

Later, when he closed up, the unsuspecting shop owner was disappointed that he had not had a single customer all day.

So many things can go wrong with just the push of a button.

He had been standing in the middle of the road, at around two-thirty in the morning, noting several coordinates. Naturally, the streets were deserted and the night sky was clear. His time transporter relied on the precise location of three specific stars to work. It was a sort of heavenly triangulation system that his spatial transposition formula used. He knew just how very close he was, using what he held comfortably in his hand, to be able to travel through time. Now, almost ninety, he had been working tirelessly for more than six decades to develop a simple, pocket-sized device that would change the world.

Of course, this is where the button pressing thing comes in. Having done just that, he was now standing in the road, in broad daylight, watching a large delivery van coming towards him at speed. The moment of impact resulted in three significant things. First, it had rendered him badly bruised and unconscious, secondly, the device had been crushed beneath one of the vehicle’s tyres, and the third was that he had been thrown back a week in time.

They were very nice to him in the hospital. The nurses were doing their best to stifle their giggles when he finally came to. They had been amused by his delusional ramblings, his frantic babblings about being lost in time and unable to get back.

In the hours and days that followed, he had considered so many things he could do to convince people that this had really happened. He could for example, being something of a soccer fan, tell them which team win’s the upcoming game, the resulting score, the injuries, the penalties, the player who was sent off, the threatening rain that held off… He could go on. He could do all of that. Was that what he wanted? No, not really. A sense of logical resignation took over. In a way, he was more than relieved when the week had finally passed.

At the end of the day, he knew that at the very worst he would only ever be regarded as some doddery old fool who’d watched too many episodes of Star Trek.

None of his classmates actually wanted to have much to do with him.

This had been the cause of a number of lectures from teachers. They wanted to see greater mixing and interaction with the boy. Most teachers didn’t try to hide the fact that the boy came across as being a little odd. However, they wanted to see a genuine effort being made by the whole class. All through the term most of them truly tried to communicate with him, without success. They found it very hard to be sociable with him when he wasn’t interested.

In the main, they found it extremely hard to get over the fact that he liked to spend his time, standing in the corner of the playground, playing rock, paper and scissors… on his own!

The two young couples were having one of their regular picnics.

The weather was nice, windy yet warm, and the women decided to leave the men talking about cricket and take a stroll along the edge of the cliff. It was just a trodden track that occasionally ran dangerously close to the edge. The slightly older of the two led the conversation; work, holiday plans, and so on. She was obviously trying to learn a little more about her friend. She had suspected something, but couldn’t be sure. He’d been acting funny lately. She knew he was hiding something, but whatever it was, it may have nothing to do with her friend, who, with a sudden gust of wind was stumbling. Suddenly, in the briefest of moments, her friend was gone!

She fell to the ground, lying flat and face down. She crawled to the edge and looked over. She could see that a tangle of roots protruding from the face of the cliff had saved her fall. She was gripping the largest of them with one hand, wide-eyed and virtually unable to speak. She was obviously frozen with fright. The woman above leant over as far as she dared and looked for a way she could get close enough to help her. Although the idea that her friend could fall to her death on the rocks below terrified her, she couldn’t help feeling that fate had provided her with the perfect opportunity to get at the truth, one way or the other.

Making herself heard over the wind, which was now driving into the face of the cliff, she called out, “Before we go further, I need to ask you something.”

The woman below, although still looking frightened, took on a different expression. She only nodded.

The other, now convinced that she was on the right track, called down, “If you can find it in yourself to tell me the truth, it may go better for you. It may, or, on the other hand, it may not. Let’s face it, you either fall, or I get closer and give you my hand, then we very carefully scramble back up together. The choice is yours!”

With tears streaming down her cheeks and fear in her eyes, she said. “OK. I’ve been seeing him twice a week. He comes round for an hour after his night class.”

“Good start. OK, how long has it been going on?”

“About three months, from the time you had us round for your birthday bash. I’m so sorry. I’m truly sorry. I promise, I won’t see him anymore. I swear to you, I won’t!”

“OK, don’t move! Stay exactly where you are. Just hold onto that root without moving. I’m coming down.”

Moving off to the side she found a way to climb down very slowly to a spot next to where the other was hanging on. “Don’t move!” she shouted again, and leant across. The woman hanging to the root looked on in terror as her fingers where prized open one by one.

She wanted to be the one that did it, not fate!

He stood in front of his bedroom mirror, expressionless.

It was the sort of look that you had to have for a passport photo. No smiling or raised eyebrows or protruding lips, just your face. Simply pokerfaced, deadpan, vacant, just blank. He was holding it steady. This was the baseline, a blank facial expression. The one that you start with before creating. Preparation was everything and deception was an art. He had to create, and once created, practice, control, and maintain. Once he’d perfected ‘the look’, he had to be able to turn it on instantly. This would need to be done without hesitation. This was where the practice came in. This would be the point where endless repetitions were required. The development of an on queue expression that comes up perfectly with no visible effort.

After twenty long minutes he had it right. It was exactly what he needed. Now came the repetition, that precise look over and over again. After a further gruelling five minutes of this, the turning of the head to face the mirror came next. Turning, each time, and in an instant wearing the precise look.

It was at this point that he heard it. The clattering at the front door. A murmuring of voices downstairs. His voice raised, hers now silent. Moments passed before the inevitable call up the stairs.

“Son, can you come down a minute?”

He braced himself, and after one final brief check in the mirror, made his way down the stairs.

As he entered the living room, his father asked, “Do you know anything about the broken window at the front?”

The boy turned and looked…

To do this or that.

To see where you’re at.

To cuddle a cat.

To buy a new hat.

To chastise a brat.

To live in a flat.

To tie a cravat.

To shake out a mat.

To swipe at a gnat.

To stop for a chat.

To fiddle a stat.

To cut off the fat.

To look through a slat.

To dress for combat.

To trap a large rat.

To oil up a bat.

To stir a large vat.

To eat a smoked sprat.

To hold a wombat.

To change a format.

To make pigeons scat.

To break up a spat.

To know where you’re at.

To do this… or that.

He was confronted with making the most important decision of his lifetime.

Holding the highest office in the land didn’t help. If he chose one way he could easily regret it when it turned out to be an overkill. On the other hand going in the other direction could easily lead to it being seen that he hadn’t done enough to resolve the situation. He’d had a number of discussions with his closest advisors and found to his annoyance that their views came in at around fifty-fifty. He knew he had to be absolutely positive that the decision he made was the right one. A great many lives would depend on what he decided.

He went outside, confirmed that there was no one around, slipped his hand in his pocket and took out a coin.

He tossed it.

He had been standing in the queue for over three hours.

It was late afternoon and the shop would be closing soon. A whisper had come down the line that it too had run out of corned beef, but it was only a rumour. It was probably started by unscrupulous types who just wanted to reduce the queue to improve their own chances. He wouldn’t be surprised. The shortage had been going on across the country for over a week at this point and things had been getting ugly. There had been TV reports showing scuffles and even fights over the last few cans on supermarket shelves. Now, it was the smaller shops, like this one, that people were finding still had a small number of tins left, although these were usually more expensive.

Not that the price was stopping the rush. He had heard that the black market sales were going through the roof. None of this was surprising. Just the thought of going for more than a week or two without a corned beef sandwich was enough to drive some people crazy.

Nobody knew for sure, but it had something to do with a sea container shipment capsizing mid-ocean somewhere on route from Brazil.

He and those around him saw the queue in front breaking up and wandering off. The shop had closed. He checked the time, noting that they’d shut twenty minutes early. This was becoming common, now.

Closing up as soon as the last tin was taken off the shelf… for safety reasons.

She woke up finding that she had been turned into a rabbit.

This was going to have a major impact on her life, her circle of friends, her everything! She sat thinking for the longest time. She went out into the garden to see whether anything else had changed; it hadn’t. The dog was strolling around the yard, as usual. It didn’t seem to notice her. This really amazed her. She watched as he went over to his food bowl. This made her wonder about the sort of thing she was expected to eat. She had no idea because the family had never owned a rabbit. She wandered around aimlessly for a while until she came to the small vegetable garden. She sniffed at the lettuce, it smelt wonderful. She sat eating for a while. On her way back to the house, the dog suddenly appeared. It padded right up to her and sniffed. She was frozen with fear. Then, seeming satisfied, he just trotted away.

Well, it’s not that bad, she thought, the nasty animal never stopped chasing me when I was a cat…