Author: Alexander Fawn

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.’”

His dad and the man who used to fix his car were really good buddies.

They would often sit around drinking, chatting and joking in the evenings. He would hear them on those evenings when it was early enough for him to be still up. So, when he heard about the crash, and how his dad’s friend had been killed, he knew it would be a sad time for all of them; even him, although he was only young.

They all knew him, not just his dad. Most times the man would call round straight away if his dad needed something fixed. He used to come direct from his work in town. He was a mechanic in a garage; all he ever did was work on cars.

He and dad would sometimes play golf together. Sometimes they would all go down to the course together. His dad and his friend would play a round of golf. Of course, he was much too young to play. He would toddle around behind them, while his mum sat in the clubhouse chatting with the ladies. Everybody always had a good time. Despite his age, the boy knew his dad was really going to miss his friend.

That’s why he couldn’t understand it when he heard his mum saying she would top up the beer in the fridge for his visitor tomorrow evening. Who could they be talking about? Maybe his dad had found a new friend. In his way, he thought that would be good. When the time came, the front door bell sounded and the man was welcomed in.

It was the man from the garage, the man who played golf with his dad, the man who had recently died. The shock to his young mind was stunning. He could hear his dad and his friend talking and laughing. He sat in the next room with his mother; she was reading a book while he silently played with his blocks. He remained very quiet and withdrawn throughout the evening.

When the man left, the parents could see that the boy was confused.

“He doesn’t understand,” she said.

His father said, “Should we explain?”

She let out a long breath, and said, “I’ll do it.”

She and the boy sat on the sofa together. “I’m sure you know that daddy’s friend died in a car accident,” she began.

The boy nodded slowly.

She continued. “He was in his car on his way to the golf club when it happened.”

The young boy sat waiting for more.

His mother put her arm around him and stroked his hair.

“We were all in it, my dear.”

He was reading the newspaper when his friend joined him in the bar.

He folded his paper and said, “Just reading about my missing neighbour. I must say I’m worried.”

“Yes. That’s right, you know him, don’t you?”

“I do, or I did; not very well, but a nice guy. Somehow the press have got hold of his theories.” He pointed to the paper. “Of course, now people will think he’s cuckoo.”

“Do you?”

The man frowned. “Not sure. He had some pretty wild ideas about his favourite topic, but I always found him a straight sort of guy.”

“What topic was that?”

“Oh! He was always going on about the Hollinwell incident.” He looked down at the paper. “It’s all laid out in this latest edition.”

“Hollinwell?”

“Yes, this was in England. I think it was some time back in the eighties, they had this big gathering of kids’ marching bands. It was held in a showground at this place called Hollinwell. Never heard of it?”

The other shrugged. “Rings a bit of a bell, but go on.”

The man was lost in thought or a moment. “Oh! Yes. It was the real thing alright. Fascinating business really.”

The other said, “Do go on.”

“Well, according to the reports published at the time, right out of the blue kids just started dropping like flies. They were fainting, vomiting and generally all getting really sick at the same time, around three hundred of them. This was the case with some adults and young babies as well. Over two hundred of them were carted off to four local hospitals. Of course, the newspapers just loved it!”

The other smiled. “I bet! Did they ever find out what caused it?”

“No. The local authorities looked into it, of course. I think it was pretty thorough. They looked at food poisoning, water contamination, radio waves; the lot. Never figured it out though. There was later speculation that local fields being sprayed with a chemical may have been responsible, but who knows.”

“Fascinating,” said the other, obviously enjoying the story.

“Anyway, this guy is a reporter, working for a London paper. He was obsessed with the whole thing. He spent literally decades researching it, looking for an answer. Anyway, like I said, he was obsessed. Whatever you or I might think, he was convinced that the whole thing was an alien encounter.

He reckoned that similar things had happened before, but with fewer people. He said something went wrong with whatever the visitors were trying to do.”

The other was pulling a face.

“I know, but I have to say, this was a very level headed guy. Respected in his profession, and he was good to the local school.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, as you know, he’s a neighbour and he often does a bit for our local school’s newsletter. Like, attending a meeting, then writing a piece for the next issue. I was due to meet up with him last week, but he didn’t show. I’ve since found out he went missing several weeks ago. His brother-in-law was apparently the last person to see him. They happened to be coming home on the same bus and got chatting. His brother-in-law told the police he’d been told that he was on the cusp of getting an answer to the mystery, but it meant that he would have to go away for a while.”

“So, what exactly do you think has happened to him?”

“I think he’s been taken. Well, not taken exactly, more like he found a way to make some kind of request, and went!”

“So, you obviously fear for the man’s safety.”

With a shake of his head, he replied, “Well, no, it’s not that.”

“What then?”

“I’m concerned that he won’t be back in time for the next issue!”

There I was, just tucked away in her jeans pocket.

The park was warm and sunny that day, I could feel it through the fabric as she lay there. That day my owner was doing stocktake at the bookstore. She love’s working there, among books. She loves books. Ever since starting at the shop she hasn’t bought a single book. The boss said from day one she could help herself, but only one at a time. She was lying there reading with me nestled with her, a weeny red cross on a tiny shield.

The fact is, her late uncle gave me to her all those years ago. “Blood’s important,” he had said. As a young girl she just stared at him wide-eyed. “No matter,” he had chortled, “it’ll bring you luck.” She often remembers how he leant very close to her ear and whispered in his old, raspy voice. “Keep it safe.” Since then I go with her everywhere.

Her midday break was nearly up. She carefully slipped in her bookmark. She would have a comfortable three-minute walk from the park to the high street. She rolled over lazily to get up, still lost in the story, still wondering how it would all work out.

That’s when it happened. That’s when I fell. I fell and just rested there in the grass, separated, on my own, lost.

The young man who passed at that very moment didn’t seem to see me at first. I glinted as much as I could! Then he spotted me.

He picked me up and looked around. He knows what it is. He gives blood. I am held, bouncing in his hand as he runs to catch up.

“Hello! Hello!” he calls.

She turns to see what he is holding out. She pats her pocket.

“Oh! Thank you so much. Where…?”

He looks back. “Just there. You must have…”

“Dropped it, yes, I must have.” She looked embarrassed “That’s kind of you.”

He went to move off, but turned back saying, “You give blood then?”

“Um, actually no.”

“No?”

“No.”

“You should.”

“Should I?”

“Sorry, I mean… not sure what I mean. I… I didn’t mean to be rude.”

She smiled. “That’s OK. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should think about it.”

He hurriedly pulled out his mobile phone saying, “My next appointment at the local centre is…” he tapped for a while, then held the screen so she could read the time and date. “I’m only saying, if you wanted, we could meet there, I’m sure they could fit you in and, well, we could go for a coffee afterwards.”

She raised her eyebrows, laughed and parroted him, “… and we could go for a coffee afterwards.”

His face reddened and he turned away, saying, “No, of course I’m sorry. Look after that badge anyway. Blood’s important. Well, you know what I mean. It was nice meeting you. Bye.” With that he went to hurry off.

“Wait!” she shouted, much louder than she had intended.

He turned.

She brought out her phone and held it up, “Can you give me those details again?”

She tapped them in.

As she watched him walk away, she held me very tight in her hand. I could feel the dampness and the pounding pulse. It was very fast.

The old man said I would bring her luck.

Scattered notions in the head,

Like an unseen fault in a bridge’s span,

Or a casual thing that someone said,

Or the worldwide nature of misguided man.

–

See revellers in a moonlight dance.

A runner slowly losing pace,

Or drug-takers staggering in a trance,

How the privileged maintain their lofty place.

–

Criminals meet and quietly plan.

Thinkers probe the thoughts of the masses.

An infant undergoes a scan.

A boy detecting leaking gases.

–

In a quiet room, there’s a distant shout,

While beneath the stars, bonfires rage.

Jitters when the power goes out.

The scent of books as they slowly age.

–

Bird song in the early morning.

Such long hours chatting on the phone.

Sirens sounding out a warning.

A soldier crouching all alone.

–

A much loved tree being felled.

A patient wondering what comes next.

A tearful child being held.

A desperate teacher looking vexed.

–

Bullies hurting out of spite,

Or people seeking auto parts.

Distant worlds only seen at night,

Or lovers nursing broken hearts.

Placing bets on backstreet fighters.

Children running on a beach.

Blank pages staring back at writers.

Using hands instead of speech.

–

Those just tiring of society,

Or watching birds in treetop nests,

Or teasing men for their sobriety.

Breaking open treasure chests.

–

The anguish of an erring priest.

Fallen people making headlines.

Conquering heroes at a feast,

Or safety flouting, keeping deadlines.

–

Scattered notions swim around,

Each one playing some sentient part.

A surfeit of ideas are found.

In truth, an agonising way to start.

–

Wherein these idle thoughts abound,

Within each one, so little known.

No external source will sound.

It’s in the writer’s head alone.

It may well have happened to anybody, but it happened to him.

He simply didn’t see it coming. All that took place on that particular morning probably transpired in a matter of moments.

He was crossing the town square at the time. There were not many people around, although it was late morning it was still too early for office workers to be taking their lunch breaks.

Out of nowhere, a stranger just walked up to him, pulled his arm out by the sleeve of his jacket, pushed something into his hand and walked on past him. It was all over in less than five seconds. That wasn’t the strangest part. No. When he looked around the man was gone. He was right there, moments ago. Now, looking around in all directions he was nowhere to be seen. He had been a very ordinary looking man in a suit, like hundreds of others that would soon emerge from the surrounding buildings.

He looked down at what he’d been given. It was a small metallic cube, not much bigger than a sugar cube. It was nicely rounded along its edges and had no visible markings of any kind. It looked a lot like a die that you might throw when playing a board game, but without the spots. In itself, it was a beautiful object.

It was on the flat palm of his hand and he was flipping it over with his fingertips, checking that none of the sides were marked in any way, when he felt a shudder. Actually, it was more like a tremor; he felt it through the soles of his shoes. The air around him seemed to vibrate and a hand appeared, gently plucking the cube from his palm.

Looking up, again he was face to face with the stranger, who smiled as he put the cube in his pocket. He nodded saying, “Thank you for holding this for me.”

The man, despite the fact that his head was swimming, managed to say “Look. What’s going on here?”

The stranger’s head shook.

“Just give me a clue,” he went on, “You owe me that much.”

A slight nod, and the stranger said, “That’s the problem you see. If I tried to explain what is actually going on here you would not comprehend anything I told you. I’m sorry, but you’ll just have to accept the fact that holding on to this has meant a great deal to me and I’m very grateful.” He paused. “I would like to give you something as a token of my goodwill, but that would leave traces. We are not permitted to leave traces.”

“We?”

The stranger pointed over the man’s shoulder saying, “them.”

He turned to see.

When he looked back, confused… the stranger was gone.