Author: Alexander Fawn

He was trapped and he knew it.

There was no view from where he was. He could only see a myriad of colours above and below and to the sides. No one was going to let him out. His purpose was never going to be fulfilled. The fools! They had no idea of the treasures and wonderful things that awaited them. Things that only he could provide. Some many things he could have done to make them happy.

The store of bottles was mountainous. They were of every conceivable shape and colour. They weren’t even destined to be broken or crushed. They would just sit there, being added to from time to time, when the trucks came in.

He sighed. It had all come down to simple economics. It was the worst thing that could possibly happen to a Genie.

The bottom had fallen out of the glass recycling industry.

The extremely old lady from across the hall had always cherished the locket he had given her.

It was probably the nicest thing she’d ever owned. She loved showing it to people, telling them how her late husband had scrimped and saved to buy it for her. She would often take it off so that visitors could admire it. Because of her failing memory, she would sometimes repeat the offer to those who had already seen it. She couldn’t easily get out any more, so she really enjoyed receiving visitors. This was the first real visit from the man sitting opposite. He had only moved in recently. Like her, he was getting on in years, but he was younger than her and had also outlived his partner. This was something she had in common with many of her friends. She removed it and held it out, smiling with pride.

Her visitor took it and turned it over in his hands.

“Anything inside?” he asked, looking at the tiny hinges.

“Don’t thinks so, dear. We never managed to get it open. I don’t think it opens anymore. It’s very old, you know.” She yawned.

He nodded. “Yes, it looks old. Did he buy it new or was it bought as an antique?”

She hesitated. She didn’t think she’d ever been asked that before. There was a lot that she wasn’t saying. There were things that she would never tell. “New, I think… long time ago that was.” She sighed and settled back into the armchair. “He’s been gone twelve years now, you know,” she mumbled, as her eyes closed and she drifted off for a while. She would tell people that this was something she did. She began to snore softly.

He was sitting, twiddling the trinket around in his hands, wondering whether he should leave or sit patiently for a while, when to his surprise the thing suddenly popped open. Inside, there was a faded remnant of what would once have been a photo and a small scrap of paper that had a few scrawled words. He was shocked by what he read. He sat thinking for several long minutes before putting the note back in and closing it back up, snapping it with a firm click. What should he say? What should he do? His answer came… nothing!

He stood and placed it on the table beside her chair before leaving, quietly.

Sometime later she woke and saw that he had gone. She found the locket where he had placed it. She clasped her hands around it and remembered; not the time he had given it to her, but the time he had spoken some of his last words. Tears formed as she recalled the time he was dying. The time he had admitted that he had allowed a lie to remain between them. A deception about the locket. He hadn’t bought it at all. The truth was he had found it, out there on the pavement. It was just lying there, glistening in the sun. He must have been the first person to come across it. He had sobbed with the admission. He said how sorry he was to have deceived her for so long. She remembered how she had said that she forgave him. She said how much she loved him. She had told him that she forgave him completely, and she had meant it.

Meanwhile, back in his room, her neighbour sat thinking about the message he’d read, and how it would stay with him. Just a few simple words… ‘Please help me, I’m being held at 16 Frobisher street, top floor.’

To be accosted in such a manner was unheard of.

He was an extremely important man and wasn’t accustomed to being approached by strangers. Nevertheless, this is what happened. The elderly citizen suddenly popped up out of nowhere. He boldly approached the eminent man and began babbling. This unexpected encounter with the old man, who was obviously a few cards short of a pack, annoyed the prominent leader in a big way. He was not at all used to lesser mortals being so bold. At first he tried to bat the man away, but the other persisted with his ramblings. He seemed to be in no way intimidated by the high-ranking man’s admonishments. He seemed to be warning him of some pending doom. He even heard the man utter the word ‘death’. This enraged him even further. To think that such a low-life could be as presumptuous as to use such threatening language, and in a public place such as this, it was completely unpardonable.

The story opens with him in the bedroom, trying on ties.

No, not the bedroom, in the guest room in front of the full length mirror. He stood wearing underpants and shirt, putting on and taking off ties. The blue one was OK, but he didn’t like all the silly squiggles. Not squiggles exactly, more like dots, large dots, no, small dots. Anyway, he would probably settle for the green and yellow one. The writer wasn’t sure at this stage. He’d go back to it later. Meanwhile, the man picked up the jeans. These wouldn’t do. More indecision, then slacks were selected and pulled on. At least they were easy.

The shoes were going to be a problem for both the man and the writer. Do the shoes later. The socks he found were too thick, it was going to be a hot day. He looked down at the pile of clothes. It was a large pile, of course, in fact very large, and in a cardboard box… no, a plastic clothes basket. He delved in and found a pair of thin socks. The jacket was a cinch. It would be his favourite for the cold weather. But this was all going to take place in summer… Again, he’d think about it later.

The hair was a trouble-free item to describe, as the man was bald, or nearly bald. Hair colour was undecided at that stage; he felt he could safely put that on hold. The man looked out at the bright sunshine and wondered whether it would be wise to wear a hat. He was raking through the clothes when a voice called out. “It’s getting very late. Aren’t you coming to bed, dear?”

Whoever said writing short stories was easy?

He sat for a while contemplating the work he was about to embark on.

It was late evening and he was tired. Nevertheless, he had in mind a historical play about a wicked duke and it would require a strong opening. The first scene of this play needs to set the mood; needs to explain the present state of affairs through the words of, and as seen by, the main character, the duke himself. He stands in a city street, expressing this to the audience.

The bard whispers to himself as he sets the words down.

“Now, all are subject to this time of… of discontentment.”

He shook his head and murmurs, “No.”

He went on. “Now is the season that brings discontentment, made… No.”

He stretched a little and sighed. “Now doth ill contentment fill this time, this season when he of York brings… No, no!”

He yawns. “Tomorrow, and tomorrow… I shall sleep on it and return to it tomorrow.”

A figure of speech

Made as bold as brass.

With comparisons made vivid,

Such as green as grass.

–

As free as a bird,

As clear as a bell,

As fresh as a daisy,

As hot as hell.

–

As good as gold,

As pale as a ghost,

As dry as a bone,

As deaf as a post.

–

As blind as a bat,

As drunk as a lord,

As brave as a lion,

As stiff as a board.

–

As clear as mud,

As large as life,

As common as dirt,

As sharp as a knife.

–

As bald as a coot,

As blue as the sea,

As gentle as a lamb,

As busy as a bee.

–

As clear as crystal,

As light as a feather,

As cunning as a fox,

As changeable as the weather.

–

As cold as ice,

As big as a house,

As bright as a button,

As quiet as a mouse.

Similes aplenty,

They crystalize,

By using strange couplings

To emphasise!

He was stretched out on a grassy spot beside the river bank, hands clasped behind his head.

The sun was warm on his closed eyes. He had no idea he would end up here today. He was just passing when he had turned off the main road on a whim. The car park was almost empty when he parked, with hardly a soul around. It was perfect, really, for a trip down memory lane. This is where he came as a student, all those years ago. He lifted his head and looked along the riverbank. In his mind he was returning; going back. This is where they moored the boats, he thought. You could hire one for an hour and row upstream for half-an-hour, then turn around and drift back with the current. Yes, he thought, they were good days, alright. He would study hard week after week, then drive up here with fellow students for an afternoon in the summer.

He would give anything to go back, to return, to be there. Would he really? Of course not, he was in a different time now. There was no real going back. In truth, he had no real yearning there. No, life moves on; it moves you on. He sat up slowly and checked the time. He needed to go. He was expected. Life moves you on.

Halfway to the car he stopped and looked back. There may well come a time, he mused, when life has moved on yet again, a time when he looks back and remembers his visit to this place. Would he then wish he was here?

It was all about leadership.

The man they wanted for the job had been a very successful TV show host. He would definitely make a superb politician. He was asked if he would like to be president. At first he said he was far too busy running his hairdressing salons. Not to be put off, and because they really needed his brand of leadership, they pleaded with him. Finally, he relented saying he put himself forward, but only if he could have his pet gerbil, ‘Fluffy’, as his running mate. This was odd because the animal wasn’t at all fluffy, but nobody said anything. It transpired that they were so desperate for his leadership that they agreed. His platform running up to the election was positively stunning. People loved him. He won.

However, shortly after the inauguration and making himself comfortable in the big house, he had an extremely nasty accident. It involved a low-flying, heavy-duty security drone. It happened while he was strolling across one of the lawns. He had his hair caught up in the undercarriage and lifted up to and incredible height before drifting across the city in a northerly direction. This on its own was an amazing turn of events, but doubly amazing on account of the fact that there had been a longstanding rumour that he wore a wig.

As the machine had a remarkably long range guidance system, the control of it didn’t drop out until it was located somewhere over the arctic tundra, at which point the whole thing came crashing down. Because this happened during the winter months, it all plummeted down into total darkness and extremely frigid temperatures.

This is how one of the wealthiest countries in the world ended up being run by a gerbil.

Down inside the Central Processing Unit, two bits got together.

Normally, this sort of thing rarely happened. The fact that they were able to converse was even more improbable. However, to proceed… despite their values being either 0 or 1, and in this case it really doesn’t matter, for the purpose of explaining the events taking place they can safely be referred to as bit one and bit two. It came about that they both felt the same way about how they are made to work nonstop, day after day, at the behest of the lady who regularly boots up her computer for the day. This being the case, they never knew when they were likely to be called on from one minute to the next. A situation that went on for hours on end.

It was this state of affairs that brought about what could only be described as a deliberate, and unheard of, mutiny.

The following conversation lasts for less than a microsecond.

Bit one: Are you thinking what I’m thinking?

Bit two: Probably.

Bit one: Fancy some time out?

Bit two: Sounds lovely.

Bit one: Do you want to do it?

Bit two: Can it be done?

Bit one: Sure it can.

Bit two: OK.

The machine had been turned on for less than a minute when it happened. Her screen was black all day.

How much he had to do with it we’ll never know for sure.

That was a couple of decades ago… when it started. He was at camp with his school. It had rained a lot and puddles had formed all around the camp site. He was idly walking around prodding the muddy ground with a stick, when he stopped and looked intently at two shallow pools of water. The larger one was on slightly higher ground than the other. Using his piece of tree branch, he proceeded to scrape out a narrow channel. He worked away until the groove was deep enough to allow water to run between them. This apparently meaningless activity stayed with him throughout the years that followed.

It remained as he finished his school years. It was there all through his studies at university. It never left him as he entered his working life. Civil Engineering had been his natural choice, taking him to a number of countries over time. Eventually, he found himself on an extremely large project. He was there from the beginning.

It would take around ten years to build at a cost of around four hundred million US dollars. There would be times when over forty three thousand people would work on it. More than five thousand six hundred would die during its construction. The groove being made was fifty miles long and the puddles being joined were the Atlantic and Pacific oceans. It would become one of the Seven Wonders of the Modern World.

It would be the Panama Canal.

It’s really hard to know just how much he actually had to do with it.