Author: Alexander Fawn

All eyes were on the people in the control room and the world held its breath.

The only way to prevent the massive meteorite from obliterating the city was to pulverize it in space. Today’s launch was the result of several months of planning. A row of a dozen technicians sat before their banks of screens. In front of them, at the end of the room, a giant display was being continually fed with technical data. The Project Director, having recently flown in from an important last minute meeting with the Prime Minister, entered the room and took up his position behind the technicians. He switched on his microphone and spoke into it.

“Did the missile launch on time?”

There was no immediate answer. Then a nervous sounding technician number five said, “Not exactly, sir.”

“What do you mean, not exactly?”

“We were about three minutes off, sir.”

“About?”

Number five checks his screen and says, “Three minutes and seventeen seconds, sir.”

A heavy sigh from the director. “Very well. Were the trajectory adjustments made?”

“I think they were, yes, sir.”

“You think?”

“Well, I didn’t make them, sir.”

“Well, who did?”

“Number two, sir.”

The director peered around. “Where is number two?”

“He went to the toilet, sir.”

After a long silence, the director said, “OK, but I need to verify his numbers as soon as he returns.”

The room went very quiet for several minutes before the director spoke again.

“I think someone should go and check on him.”

Number eight said, “I’ll go sir.”

“Thank you, number eight.”

As the technician left the room the director looked around again. He noticed that two chairs were empty. He asked, “Where is number one?”

Nobody answered.

“Number three, where is number one?”

“Sorry, sir. I’m not sure, sir.”

“But you were right there, you must have seen him leave!”

“Well, yes, I did, sir.”

“Well?”

Number three took a long breath and said, “He had a phone call, sir.

The director shook his head. “For goodness sake! What sort of phone call?”

“I don’t really know, sir. All I know is he said it was urgent and it was from his auntie, sir.”

Just then, number eight re-entered the room unaccompanied and sat down, saying nothing.

The director glared at the back of number eight’s head for a full minute. Finally, he said, “Well, number eight, did you find him?”

“No, sir.”

“No? You didn’t find him?”

“No, sir. He’s gone, sir?”

“Gone? Gone where?”

“Sorry, I don’t know, sir. He’s just gone.”

At this point the director put his head in his hands. He was filled with despair at the obvious conclusion that this entire impending disaster could well have been avoided if the Human Resources Department had run a far more rigorous personnel selection process.

 

 

Entering the world of fantasy,

While working with keyboard and pen,

Is easily done, when first begun,

By founding the where and the when.

–

Time away allows thoughts to gel;

A sense of solitude pushing through.

Will wisdom let you draw it in?

Will time allow it to brew?

–

Mollified by the quietude,

It surprisingly sets in motion

An allowance from the order of nature itself

To have fantasy procure a notion.

–

Allowing wandering thoughts to take form,

There are pleasing mysteries there.

Whimsical daydreams, hardly in focus,

And beckoning fantasies to embrace without care.

–

Imperfections surface, while the senses dance.

A maze appears, and a boundary is crossed.

A notion takes hold, but is not understood.

A truth comes to light, but in moments is lost.

–

Based on things whether known or not,

But made manifest in a growing passion.

Seeing nuances revealed at a distance,

Interpreting, after a fashion.

–

Tampering with that, which is way beyond grasp.

Attempting to transcend space.

Avoiding the scars of words unspoken.

Treating the unholy with grace.

–

Concepts unfold like gentle whispers.

Listen, lest the words take flight.

They give birth to a borrowed serenity,

While setting each nuance alight.

–

Epiphanies, in time become mundane,

While continually taking stock,

Forever wandering in a single moment,

Yet filtered by the clock.

–

Retracing the steps made in moments passed,

Or content to just endlessly roam.

By some strange syncopation, the world runs on,

And the present moment eventually comes home.

–

Does the circling of birds stir the plot?

Does the breeze blow in something new?

Does the setting of the sun settle what’s done?

And what will the morning bring into view?

–

All rhythms and rhymes, slowly fade,

And the climb becomes more steep.

Allow all the clamour to drift away,

With the safety net of sleep.

–

All of this is easily done.

Time taken just now and again.

Just to be considered as free,

By creating the where and the when.

The Harpy sat high up on the bookshelf, looking down at the inebriated man.

It watched in fascination as the man clumsily turned the pages of his book and constantly topped up his tumbler with whiskey from the half empty bottle. It watched the awkward movement of the arm repeatedly lifting the glass to his lips. It wasn’t at all sure what it was looking at. It was big, of that the creature was certain. It sat at a desk covered with books. If it stood up it would be a great deal bigger. The Harpy, being part woman and part bird, was only a fragment of his size and bulk. If it attacked the man below it would most probably come off badly.

No, if it wanted to give the man trouble, and it goes without saying that it did, after all, it was a Harpy, and that’s what Harpies did, it would have to be content with annoying him. It would fly down, making for his face, and then swerve to one side before the man knew what was happening. It moved forward a little, readied its wings and launched off across the room. The man, hearing the flapping looked up and froze in horror. He took a wild swipe at the creature, dropping his tumbler in the process. The Harpy, perched back on the shelf, took in the chaotic seen with a wicked grin. It giggled malignantly, as only a Harpy can.

The creature lifted its head and let out an evil screech, inviting others to come and join the fun. Another jolt ran through the man as the menacing shriek pierced his ears. The man’s drink slowly ran across and dripped off the pages of his open book.

In no time at all the room was teeming with the spiteful monsters. As they swirled around him he felt the hair moving on his head. He sat swatting maniacally for several minutes before he finally lost consciousness. His arms lay across the desk. The bottle lay on its side, its contents running off the edge of the desk and into his lap.

He was like that when his wife looked in. She sighed and left him there for the night.

It was Greek Mythology, of course. Such powerful stuff!

She knew it was just a silly phobia.

It all started back in her home town in Africa, many years ago. She was very young when it happened. She was taken to the zoo by her parents, and quite unnoticed, had climbed over a fence, the way small children do. She was intent on exploring one of the many animal enclosures. At first, she didn’t see the rhinoceros, but her father did. She was plucked into the air from behind and the two of them scrambled out to safety. The crying didn’t stop for hours and that night she had her first nightmare; the first of many.

The incident plagued her life growing up and eventually she came up with a solution of her own. She had finished her studies and accepted a job in Manhattan, with a partly furnished apartment in a high-rise building, not far from work. Naturally her parents were concerned that she’d be living alone in a strange city, but reluctantly wished her the best in her endeavour to rid herself of the ongoing trauma.

She settled into both her new job and the apartment quickly. She was sure she had made the right decision. She was consoled by the irrefutable fact that to be attacked by a rhinoceros in her newly found environment was extremely unlikely.

A few weeks went by, and returning late one evening was conscious of the feeling she was being followed as she walked the two blocks home. She eventually shrugged it off, and was put at ease by the sight of her front door. As she opened it she was pushed in and fell to the floor by a very real attacker. She was roughly picked up and carried in and dumped on the nearest sofa, where she was knocked unconscious by a savage blow to the head.

As she came to, she could see him opening and closing draws and cupboards. She looked around at the mess he had made when she spotted a large figurine that was barely in reach from where she lay. She managed to lift it and tuck it down beside her, out of sight. Several minutes passed. With her eyes closed she stayed very still. The intruder finally approached and bent over her. At this moment the object was swung at the side of his head, sending him crashing to the floor.

Within moments she was on her mobile contacting the police. When they arrived the thief was still unconscious when they snapped the handcuffs on him. They were delighted with the arrest as he was a known felon they’d been chasing for a while. They seemed to regard her as something of a heroine, and were quite happy that the blow to his head was fully justified.

Of course, due process took its time, with charges laid, statements taken and so on. Eventually the whole affair died away and she was left to carry on with her new life despite the disruption the whole business had created. In the main, she kept the entire thing to herself, determined to continue in her quest for a fresh start.

One evening, she remembered the evidence bag the police had returned. It didn’t contain much, but it was made heavy by the objet d’art that she had used. She casually noted that the contents matched the returned items against the list provided, when she was stunned to find an unexpected word. It was ‘rhinoceros’. The word was used as part of the description for the art piece. It was made of marble, white with blue streaking. It had been fashioned in a modern art style that left the ornament looking nothing like what it was meant to depict.

With a vacant expression, she sat looking at it for a long time before turning in for the night.

She never had the nightmare again…

From a very early age he knew that his family was a strange one.

His home life was extremely cloistered. He lived with his family in a large mansion, set back from the road. He imagined it was because of the remoteness of it that his parents had decided on a strict course of home schooling. There were few visitors to the house. One of the occasional guests was a favourite uncle, who travelled abroad a great deal. He was regarded by most as an adequate, yet amateur, violin player. He would entertain the family with his playing in the great hall after dinner. The boy was always allowed to stay up for those occasions. It was a bright spot in the boy’s sheltered world. The old man was known to be a heavy drinker, and one that would entertain others with his instrument at the drop of a hat.

His only other really meaningful happy moments were both more regular and necessarily clandestine. At the top of the house, on the third floor, at the end of a dimly lit hall, was a large featureless door. It was made of metal, with the sides and top being visibly welded to the metal door frame. From early childhood he had been told, rather pointlessly he felt, that he was never to go into it. Most nights, when he considered it was safe to do so, he would furtively visit the ominous door. Despite it being an extremely robust structure, there were noises from beyond. More than just noises; voices. It was as though the space beyond was a large room, full of people. Not that this was at all possible, but that’s what it sounded like. The voices, whether real or imagined, where muffled, never allowing him to make out any of the actual words. Naturally, because of his being subjected to such a closeted existence, each of these nightly forays was a real adventure.

One day, the boy was deeply saddened to hear that his favourite uncle had passed away and would no longer be around to make visits. It transpired that the elderly gentleman had been giving a rendition of Paganini’s Caprice number one, an energetic little piece, in a gentlemen’s club in Madagascar. Apparently, he had just managed to finish the lively number when he toppled off the table he was standing on, instantly succumbing to a massive heart attack.

As sad as it was, this unhappy event was instrumental in the boy gaining his first inkling regarding the many mysteries that surrounded him, not least of these being the true nature of the forbidden door. It was very soon after the tragic news that he was on yet another nocturnal adventure. He was almost at the end of the hallway when he heard the violin.

Nobody knew that this humble Spanish goatherd was in fact a remarkably unique individual.

It would have been open to conjecture as to why this one man should have been the only recipient of such exclusivity, but only if such a thing ever became public knowledge. As it was, the world simply didn’t know about it, and he wasn’t about to tell anybody. The man himself often pondered similar questions about his exceptional circumstances. His neighbours found him to be a quiet and generally sullen man, although quite content with his life. They had no inkling of the secret he held, but they did see that he was a very successful goatherd. In that, he was held in high esteem.

The small, almost empty room at the back of his house had a solid door that was padlocked. Neither his wife nor his children were permitted to enter there, or to disturb him when he was in it. The room had only one cheap stick of furniture in the form of a small table. On it, sat an ancient black telephone with numbered holes in a rotatable dial. This dial was never used. In fact, the phone itself was not connected in any way. It had a short, visible stub of cable hanging out the back. It never rang. It was always available.

The goatherd stood outside for a while, staring up into an empty sky. He turned and went into the house. At the back room he set the code, removed the padlock, entered and closed the door, latching it on the inside. He moved to the table and picked up the bulky receiver. There was an instant click, and he said, “Hello.”

“Well, hello to you,” came the voice, “I haven’t heard from you for some time.”

“No. Sorry, I’ve been busy with my animals.”

“Of course you have, no need to apologise. How are the wife and kids?

“All doing well, thank you.”

“So, what can I do for you?”

“Well, as you know, my goats forage on the shrubs around this area.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, of late there has been little rain in this area and even the hardiest shrubs are beginning to wither.”

At the other end God chuckled. “Not a problem… I’ll look into it.”

Standing on a sandy beach,

And looking out to sea;

Watching seagulls fill the sky,

Is a wonder for all to see.

–

They come sailing in on a salty breeze,

In great swirling patterns they swoop and glide.

Responding to the caresses of nature,

In some mystical unison, lest they collide.

–

In unfettered freedom against the blue,

They drift and soar with elegant motion.

These masters of the open sky,

That drop and wheel above the ocean.

–

With feathers caressing frothy peaks,

They skim to seek what lies below,

Dancing above the rolling swells,

Rising and dipping to and fro.

–

They screech and chirp and caw their songs,

In the airborne parlance of their call.

They drift and soar with a circling grace.

They flutter then glide with each rise and fall.

–

Between drifting sand dunes and the sea,

Watching the endless, resounding flow,

Hearing the whispering of the sands,

Feeling soft zephyrs come and go.

–

Standing quiet on a sandy beach,

Seeing nature dancing in the sky.

A wonder, and in such easy reach.

An exquisite marvel… for the common eye!

It was a large company and it often provided speakers to improve the quality of work.

The large function room was packed. There was an excited buzz in the room as this speaker had received a lot of hype, pinned up on dozens of noticeboards around the building. The room fell silent and there was a ripple of applause as he entered. The first thing he did was to put up a large poster, saying ‘There is no “I” in team.’ The audience, comprised of staff members from a number of projects around the company figured this was going to be about how individual team members should put aside their own personal needs and preferences and all work as part of a team.

He stood smiling into his audience for a moment before pointing at, and reading the slogan aloud. The first thing anyone noticed was his pronunciation of the word time, as ‘tim’, like the name. Naturally, this led many in the audience to speculate about the fact that the word ‘tim’ does in fact contain the letter ‘i’. These thoughts would have remained far more focused on that single, somewhat humorous issue, had the man not jumbled several of the poster’s other words as well.

There seemed to be some psychological scrambling of letters. Could it be that it was simply an inability to grasp the fundamentals of the English language? It was apparent that most listeners were left speechless by the man’s mangled words. Although, in truth, there were a number of those in the room that by their facial expressions and subtle lip movements could be seen earnestly attempting to figure out what he was actually saying.

At first they figured it was just his accent. Where was he from anyway? However, the wiser members of the audience came to the age-old conclusion. This was the problem with these big companies, they have so much money they’re really not sure what to do with it. They throw it around with one hand, while the other hand has no idea what’s going on. It was a safe bet that this guy wasn’t interviewed; just breezed in on his credentials. If someone had actually talked to him, his impediment would have been picked up.

More and more visibly, staff members were squirming as he went on in this completely unintelligible fashion for several minutes, before one brave soul, who obviously just couldn’t take it any longer, raised his hand.

“Excuse me. When you say, he read from his notes, ‘Or tim mimfers shad mawl pogester ib un hairmoongoose cripe,’ do you mean, all team members should pull together in one harmonious group?”

A number of women giggled.

The guest speaker looked annoyed, and glared at the women. He replied, “Ib corsh… wab alst worn e murf?” At that point the questioner shut up, and sat in silence with the rest of them.

At the presentation’s conclusion the small, silent crowd hurried to the exit. The one who had raised his hand with the only question had contrived to be the last one out.

“Tink yub!” he shouted from the door, then slammed it behind him.

 From a very early age, he wanted to be a dog.

He would scurry around the house, barking and rubbing his head against his parent’s ankles. It was obvious that he got a great deal of satisfaction out of being a dog. So much so, that his parent’s let it go on. On reflection, there came a point when they mutually agreed that it had gone on too long. It was decided that his father would speak to him. One evening, just before his bedtime, his father sat him down.

“Now then,” he began, “your mother and I wondered what you would like to be, when you grow up?”

“Can I be a dog?” he said, and grinned.

“No. Not really, but there are so many interesting things you could be.”

He sat thinking for a while. “I’m not sure, I’ve never really thought about it.”

“Well, your best subject seems to be maths. So, maybe something where you work with numbers a lot.”

“I like reading too.”

“Yes, well, you’ll always need to read when you study. Let me think; you could do something in computing, such as a computer programmer, or an accountant, or you could become a mathematics teacher, or maybe something in air traffic control, or a transport analyst, or an economist, some sort of statistician or a researcher, or a librarian, even librarians are dealing with numbers a lot of the time, to keep track of their books.”

The boy nodded at this. So it was agreed that he would study to become a librarian. Everybody was happy with the idea, and as time went on the idea became a reality. He became a librarian.

It was satisfying work, but somehow, all through the years there seemed to be something missing. As the years went on he married and had a family of his own. For the whole of his working life he was a librarian, gaining higher and higher positions, until the day he retired from his position of Head Librarian at one of the most prestigious libraries in the city.

After his wife passed away, age came upon him savagely. With his children gone and leading their own lives, he was left alone. Eventually, he began acting strangely. People said it might be Alzheimer’s disease or dementia, or something.

Nevertheless, for him, fulfilment came the day he realised that although he was alone, he was now truly in his own world.

He went out into the garden; he dropped to all fours and sniffed. There had been other dogs in the garden.

He growled.

This time, it all started when they caught the wrong bus.

They knew this the moment it went left at the traffic lights. He said nothing. Once again she had absolutely insisted on organising their evening. He knew she had problems with low self-esteem. She had always been a poor planner. She was so easily distracted, finds it hard to maintain her concentration on anything, has permanently scattered thoughts and is forgetful… along with a couple of other things. Beyond all this, on the surface, she’s always brimming with confidence. He had been so patient with her. He suggested he pick up the tickets for the show when he was in town, but as usual she told him to leave it with her. Despite all this they had been together for a couple of years and in all other respects their relationship was just fine.

So, they got off the bus at the next stop and read the timetable. They walked back the way they came and crossed the road to another stop. They caught the next bus and ended up in town, right outside the cinema. When they went in they looked for a poster, but there was nothing for their movie. He went to the ticket box and was told the film was showing at the other cinema across town. He was really annoyed, but didn’t show it. They thought about catching a bus, but decided it would only be a fifteen minute walk and the film wouldn’t start for another half-an-hour. When they arrived it seemed that the movie showing was one with a similar sounding title to the one they had chosen, besides which, it had started nearly an hour ago, as shown on their website.

He asked if they could sit down in the foyer for just a few minutes before making their way home.

When they were sitting, he took her hand gently in his and smiled lovingly at her.

He said, “You know honey, we really need to talk.”