Author: Alexander Fawn

The stool she is standing on, to reach the top shelf, topples and she falls.

Meanwhile, the stock market plummets, a local tv show’s ratings drop when the main actor is replaced ,the morning dew drips from the leaves on the tree in the back garden, a boy dives into a nearby backyard swimming pool, a tree in the neighbourhood is brought down by the wind, hopes for an injured bird’s full recovery sink when a vet inspects the damage, the price of potatoes takes a plunge after a good harvest, a quake causes a number of loose boulders to tumble into an open crater, and the temporary shelter made by trekkers collapses in the storm.

Uninjured, she repositions the stool and carefully climbs back on.

The boy liked tinkering with stuff.

He liked to mend things when he could. He’d had success with an alarm clock and a couple of portable radios. You can imagine his delight when he came across the item in the local jumble sale. The man who sold it to him let him have it for next to nothing because it had never worked. He said he wasn’t sure where he got it from, but over the years he’d try to get it going by putting new batteries in. That hadn’t worked. He thought it might be good for using some of its parts. He was obviously pleased to get rid of it.

The boy saw it as a challenge and began working on it the moment he got it home. It looked much like a transistor radio, but not quite what you’d expect. He had all the tools for the job in his room and started by removing the back cover and replacing the battery with a new one. It had an unusually large screen on the front, but it didn’t light up when he wiggled the on-off switch. He began to delve deeper.

It didn’t take long to find a loose wire that had come adrift from a small terminal block. He reconnected it and found to his great delight that throwing the switch made the screen light up. It came up with a digital display of two sets of strange numbers, symbols and letters. He had no idea what he was looking at, but he felt his excitement growing with what he had found.

Beneath the screen there were a couple of knurled dials that changed the sequence being shown. After twiddling these around for a while, he stared at the characters 31.4482° N, 109.9284° W, left showing on the screen. They made no sense to him.

Annoyed about that, he turned his intention to the button on the side, that he’d noticed earlier. There didn’t seem to be anything to indicate what its function was. After staring at it for a while, he decided to press it…

Of course, had he known that he was meddling with a Global Location Transporter, he would know that he now stood in the poorly-lit basement of a museum in Bisbee, Arizona.

Suppose you were to spontaneously jump in the car and take off quite early one morning.

Suppose you just headed for the hills. Suppose it was a warm summer day with visibility really good and when you reached the top of the escarpment you pull off the road and walk along an unsealed pathway that takes you to a spot where the trees give way to an open and splendid view of everything down there, all the way to the sea. Suppose there was a small outcrop of rocks. Suppose you climbed them slowly and carefully until you reached the highest point, where the surface was flat enough for you to sit cross-legged with your eyes closed, and there you cleared your mind of all your daily doings. Suppose you were to find, in that exquisite moment, a peace of mind that you hitherto had never before experienced!

Let’s suppose you actually did all this.

What would you do then?

Nobody in the street actually liked the man from number thirty-four.

When, to everyone’s relief, he drew his final breath… well, that’s when the rumours started. Those unlucky enough to live in the same street would all give thanks, knowing that his time was over. The mood throughout the houses slid quietly into one of grateful celebration. Even the young children and the elderly felt so much better about being there. Rumour has it that each time he returns to Hades, and apparently, this happens on a regular basis, he gets the red-carpet treatment. It has been said that he and the boss down there are the best of buddies. When ever he returns, he takes on some sort of role like he’s the head prefect or something.

Old Nick is always pleased to greet him personally when he gets off the ferry; it seems that they go back a long way.

He sat staring at his coloured computer screen.

He thinks, why am I doing this? What’s it all about? What kind of life am I living here? Whatever happened to my freedom? There is unsolicited mail, advertisements that cover my text, authorisation codes that fail, sites I can’t unsubscribe from, the internet being painfully slow, annoying pop-up ads, a WiFi that keeps dropping out. I’m continually being asked to fill out surveys, there seems to be so many passwords to keep track of, downloads that take for ever, software updates that cause problems, logins not working, email attachments that just won’t open, and now, the blue screen of death!

He takes a deep breath. Then, it’s delete, delete, delete, delete, delete. No more, mail, ads, or WiFi. No more posts, photos or video clips.

He leaves the house and settles into his favourite chair on the back patio. He knows he has to be brave, as he enters his own, personal New World Order!

Only those that were chosen could ever hope of escaping the torments of hell.

Each year, Satan allowed just one of the fallen souls the chance to escape the realm of Hades. It took the form of a vast lottery. Each and every lost soul, from all levels of sin, was eligible for release from the great abyss. The time was approaching yet again and a great buzz of excitement went through the infernal regions. The idea of this onetime prospect of sudden freedom was rife throughout the nether world. The anticipation of just one transgressor being freed, just a solitary member of the damned given the chance to avoid purgatory’s eternal torment, was present in every wrongdoer’s black and evil heart.

The Great Beast alone performed the annual lottery. He, the Angel of Darkness, the ruler of the everlasting fire of the underworld, the Fallen Angel that ruled over the abode of the damned, the place of torment, the bottomless pit of the lower world, would exclusively preside over the selection of one hundred souls from the boundless population of the immeasurable inferno of perdition. This number was reduced to ten by the King of Hell on the second pass, followed by a reduction to three, and finally, one. Only he, Lucifer, he that ruled over the Realm of Damnation, only he knew the identities of any of the cast down chosen throughout the selection process.

…but, of course, the Prince of Darkness, being just about the worst kind of rotter imaginable, wasn’t actually going to lose even one of his tortured souls. It was a simple contrivance. There never was a hundred, a ten, a three, or a one. He just loved watching false hope.

Pretty dastardly, one might think, but there again it should be remembered that each soul had chosen the path that had led them there…

She was just someone who liked to hang on to things.

Her mother had tried to talk her into throwing out all of the really old toys that she was never likely to play with again. However, despite now being in her late teens, she hadn’t wanted to throw anything out. As a consequence of this, a large wooden box, full of such things, had, for several years, been a permanent feature in the corner of her bedroom. It just so happened that this irksome topic had come up again, just before going to bed. On this occasion, although it did no more than cause a mild annoyance between them, it did make the teenager wonder whether her mother could be right. Climbing into bed, she thought about it. After all, being honest with herself, she would have a hard job remembering exactly what was in there.

Before she was able to get fully comfortable, something in her room sounded. It may be outside, she thought. That had happened before, with things blowing around in the garden. Concentrating on the noise, she wondered if it was coming from the toy box.

Getting out of bed, she went to it and listened. Almost immediately, she heard it again. Opening the lid, she peered in, waiting. There seemed to be movement coming from under all her old toys. It was just a soft rustling sound, but now it was accompanied by something stirring. As she began to take things out, she was quite impressed with how calm she was. Finally, she found something green and soft. It was wriggling. She lifted it out.

It was ‘Mopsy’, her old green rabbit. She had loved this soft toy when she was really young. She remembered how she would cuddle it in bed every night. Turning it around, she saw that it couldn’t be her old companion. She whispered to herself, “Of course, you can’t be him; you’re much too new.”

It squirmed a bit and said, “No, I’m not new at all.”

With hardly any surprise, she said, “Are you sure?”

“Yes, quite sure. I’ve been refurbished.

She frowned. “Refurbished?”

“Oh! That’s just a fancy way of saying drycleaned and blow-dried. You know, just for the occasion. For you, d’you see? But if you don’t like it…”

“No! That’s fine; you look good. I mean, really good.”

It was at this point that she stopped to think about what she was doing. Was she really chatting with a stuffed toy?

The answer came quickly, when her alarm sounded.

Slowly waking up, and remembering the night’s events, she looked across at the undisturbed toy box and began to giggle.

This stopped abruptly when getting out of bed she saw something soft and green tumble silently to the floor…

The teenager at number forty-two was learning to play the drums.

He wasn’t particularly popular with the rest of his family, although he kept his bedroom door closed whenever he practiced. He had the drum set squeezed into the corner of his room. He always tried to drum softly, but it didn’t always work. His other interest was the Saturday night dance at the village hall. He knew his family appreciated a quiet night. He wasn’t much into dancing and just wasn’t ready for a girlfriend yet. Although he knew the time would come. Anyway, he enjoyed the brief pause during the evening, when the organises put on a sort of talent show. Sometimes two or three acts would get up on the stage, some nights only one.

That was the case this particular evening. It was a boy he remembered from school. He didn’t really know him; only by sight. He’d been told he was learning to play the alto saxophone. The would-be drummer was intrigued.

When the time came, the teenager climbed up onto the small stage carrying his instrument case. Using the chair provided, he sat and took the saxophone out. After jiggling the keys for a bit, he played a version of the Buddy Holly number, ‘Raining in My Heart’. His performance only lasted a couple of minutes. In the hall, it seemed very loud. There were a few wrong notes, but he pressed on regardless. When it was finished, there were a few muffled sniggers, followed by a steady clapping, as he put the instrument back in his case and returned to one of the seats that lined the side wall.

On the opposite side of the room, the would-be drummer sat watching the performer sit himself confidently in the chair with his instrument case slid between his feet.

He was surprised at the profound and quite emotional effect this one incident of listening to the other’s performance had on him.

He wasn’t at all sure which of his feelings was the strongest, his admiration or his envy…

He was standing at his workbench, not sure how the thing could be fixed.

Maybe it can’t be fixed, he thought; I just don’t have the tools that I need to make a proper job of it. He really needed a set of adjustable clamps to reposition the parts. Then, by tightening each one individually and carefully, it could be returned to its original shape. Using a special super bond glue that is made for assembling metal parts, would mean that he could do an even better job. The trouble with that idea was that he didn’t have either the clamps or the glue. He looked around at the tools that hung on his tool boards with a sigh. Some of them began to rattle. He was startled when they began speaking.

“Use me,” said the hammer.

“No, use me,” said the screwdriver.

“Better to use me,” said the spanner.

Getting over the shock of having his tools speak to him, he said, “Sorry guys, there’s no way I can repair this without the things I need.”

The hammer said, “You could use me to knock the thing back into place. That would form a friction fit.”

“Better still, use me,” said the screwdriver, “you would only need to use a couple of screws to make the parts really tight, that would hold it together.

“For the very best results,” said the spanner, “you only need a nut and a bolt, then use me to make them extra tight. Do this and it will never move again.”

He stood back and looked at each of them in turn. “I’m sorry guys,” he said.

Picking it up, he turned and walked out of the shed.

They meant well, but there are times when just a few basic tools are simply not enough, he thought, as he dropped it in the metals bin.

The man’s complaint was registered with the hotel’s receptionist.

The building manager promptly responded to his call. Entering the room, he introduced himself. “I’ve been told that you have a complaint. Something about your window. I’m sure it’s something we can get fixed.”

The guest said, “It’s not the window. I wish it was that simple.”

“No?”

“No. It’s the view. Specifically, it’s the newlyweds to the left of the building, on the third floor in the building opposite. Their bedroom curtains are never closed. It’s not at all decent.”

The manager moved forward to the window. “I don’t understand. I’m looking straight across at the fifth floor, from here. I can’t even see the third floor.”

“No, it’s more about the angle.”

“Angle?”

“Yes. It’s not easy. You have to stand on the chair in the corner and look down.” Then, he added, “It’s better with binoculars, of course.”