Author: Alexander Fawn

He had always dreamt of playing the piano really well.

However, after years of practice, he knew he would never be anything beyond mediocre. Knowing this hadn’t stopped him for putting his name down for the local piano competition that would take place in the town’s concert hall. He would have to admit that he had put the best possible spin on it, regarding his playing ability, when filling out the application form. He would go for broke; give it his best shot. What did he have to lose? It must have worked, because a couple of days later he received a letter from the organisers letting him know that his application had been successful. This came together with further information about the event in a glossy brochure.

His foray into the world of performing, both with and against others, made him understandably nervous. Especially as he had stretched the truth to the limit on the application form. So much so, that he found himself discussing the whole thing with a perfect stranger the following evening.

Nevertheless, he was determined to play ‘La Campanella’ by Franz Liszt, a Hungarian composer. It was a particularly difficult piece to play, but he figured he would at least earn brownie points for giving it a go.

Now, the night before the event, he couldn’t help wondering whether the conversation he’d had with the odd character in the pub would actually help him to play well. He had certainly been extremely positive about how well he would do once he was on the piano stool.

On the night, he was told that he’d be the fifth of six pianists to perform. He sat in the wings with others. He hoped that nobody noticed the tremendous surge of anxiety that swept over him while he waited.

When his turn came, he walked onto the stage wondering whether he should even attempt the piece, but there was no turning back. He sat, and for a few unbelievable minutes, watched, as his hands moved around the keys, giving a perfect rendition of the piece.

There was a short silence, followed by thunderous applause that seemed to fill the entire building.

He left the stage in a state of complete bewilderment

When the last performer had played their piece, there was a short interval, leaving the audience murmuring amongst themselves.

It was as he was receiving the first-place certificate, together with an unexpected bouquet of flowers, that he felt an unusual tiredness come over him.

It was while taking a final bow the he suddenly collapsed.

As his last breath left his body, somewhere in his head, he heard a gleeful voice whispering, “It was only a verbal contract, but it holds good, you are mine now.”

There was a story going around about the three little pigs.

Let me tell you, very few know what actually happened. In fact, the pigs were real enough. However, it was because of the legend that said that there was a large, evil wolf on the prowl, huffing, puffing and blowing, thereby destroying homes; just because he could, that started the whole thing! Anyway, as a result of this, these animals set about building homes to protect themselves. It came about that the first little pig decided to build a home out of bricks. This turned out to be a very time-consuming venture. The business of finding and sieving enough soil for the job alone, meant that he had a slow start.

On the other hand, the second little pig, who had decided to build his home out of sticks, had a much easier task in front of him. He set about scouring the woods for trees with fairly straight branches that could be cut to size for the walls. This, together with much thinner sticks to create sections for the roof, all took time.

While he was out doing this, the third little pig had considered that straw was all that was needed to build his house. He made tight bundles of straw, held together with string, to make enough panels to create the entire structure. This would be an even quicker thing to build.

Meanwhile, the first little pig was making brick moulds out of flat lengths of wood. After this, he began mixing soil and water to create mud. This he then poured into the moulds and scraped off the top to produce a flat surface. There were dozens of these that were then left in the sun to bake hard. Then, bricks were removed from moulds and stacked. When he had a sufficient number of bricks, he was ready to start building.

You can well imagine what the other pigs thought of all this unnecessary extra work.

Several months had passed, before the first little pig began building, using mud as mortar. Whereas the second little pig, and the first little pig, were safely living in their new homes.

All went well, until the bad weather came. The first thing to happen was that the strong winds made short work of the third little pig’s flimsy structure. This was followed by the second little pig’s building being flattened by a huge storm, with its even stronger gale winds.

After a short spell of being homeless, the first little pig, out of the kindness of his heart, took the two homeless little pigs into his permanent dwelling for a small rental fee. This he also did as a result of his discovering that his somewhat substantial building was now attracting rates and taxes.

All three little pigs lived a very happy life there together, ever after.

As for the legend about the wolf, it was just that, a legend.

Some would say that it’s positively disgraceful how these nursery stories, completely unsubstantiated, and without any kind of collaborating evidence to back them up, find their way onto the bookshelves!

The elderly man at 47b was not happy with what he was reading.

He was not at all happy with the unkind way people were treating each other. He knew that this was a generality, but what he was reading in the newspapers and seeing on the TV news every night, all served to bear out the notion. There were so many wars going on around the world. In some cases, people were starving; even dying through lack of food. He just couldn’t understand how this sort of thing could be done to others. He put the newspaper down with a scowl. All this was true and he had to get out. He grabbed a bag. He would take a stroll down to the corner shop; there were a couple of items he needed and the fresh air would do him good.

When he was opposite the store, he had crossed the road too quickly, and lost his footing when mounting the pavement on the other side. He fell quite heavily onto the footpath. He laid there for a moment, more out of shock than anything. He hadn’t broken any bones, as far as he could tell. He was wriggling around to confirm this, when a young man with a concerned expression appeared, quite out of the blue.

“Are you ok?” He asked.

Still a bit dazed, the old man peered up at him.

“Are you ok?” he repeated. “I saw you fall”, he went on, holding out his hand.

It was a bit of a struggle, helping him to his feet. Once he was up, the old man said, “Thank you young man, that was very kind of you.”

“Not a problem,” said the other, looking quite pleased with himself. Then, smiling, he walked away down the street, giving the old man a wave as he entered the shop.

Inside, he got what he needed and went for his wallet… It wasn’t there!

He was halfway to the door, when he found it in another pocket. Returning to the counter, he apologised, put items in his bag and paid.

When he finally got back out onto the street again, he paused to take in the fresh air. It felt good. He may not understand why the world is the way it is, but he did know that there was still some kindness in it.

He stood, looking around the yard, thinking about the events that brought him here.

So much had happened of late, he thought, but in fact it was only a few months ago that his friend had made him a most unexpected offer. At the time, it wasn’t at all surprising that he would leap at the opportunity to get involved in a new hobby. His work in the finance company was pretty mundane and the thought of taking an interest in something that normally, only a few wealthy people could enjoy, would have been hard to resist. He remembers the time the idea was first put to him. Having been invited, as a guest, to the Inventers Club one evening, his friend had come up with the proposition.

It was there that he said he could modify an out-of-date model of a time portal for him to play around with. Of course, there was no instruction manual. He only had a few written notes that he’d made, based on what his geeky mate with the science degree had told him.

It had been a few months after that, when it had been built, that he brought it to his place one evening. He spent an hour or so going over the basics and reminded him that he should not let anybody know he had it. His friend had broken a couple of laws by doing what he did.

When the big breakthrough in time travel technology was discovered, back in the late 2030s, it was only possible to go back. Soon after this, a worldwide prohibition was placed on creating portals capable of future travel. This was mainly due to both ethical and legal reasons. As it was, there had been several cases of unresolved disappearances. It was generally accepted that the loss of the control device or a dead battery would explain this. Knowing this, he always had a spare battery with him.

It became obvious that this old model that his friend had cobbled together was more or less what was available today; a simple tabletop box that the user had to stand in front of, when switching it on, along with a portable hand-held control device. Its time range went far beyond the relatively short-distance trips that he would take. He did go back to his schooldays a couple of times, but mainly limited his travel too recent years.

Over the following couple of weeks that it was installed, apart from an occasional crackling sound that the box emitted, all went well. He certainly enjoyed his short forays back and forth during most evenings.

He was well aware of the fact that he was something of a dilettante when it came to using his portal. It was so often the case, that when he travelled through time, he’d have absolutely no idea where he would end up. Fortunately, the device had a ‘Home’ button, for an instant return. This, in itself, added an extra thrill when using the portal.

This was the case until his precious evening’s choice of entertainment became a nightmare in a single moment.

He found himself standing in what appeared to be the foyer of a hotel. There was something immediately strange about it. It certainly had a futuristic feel to it. The general décor was like nothing he had ever seen before. He was looking around at this, when he realised the place was deserted.

Suddenly, his attention was jolted by the sound of a door opening. It came from behind the empty reception area, and the woman that emerged made her way towards him. She was strangely dressed in clothes that were of an odd design. Her very appearance in the place made him nervous about her purpose in approaching him.

She came to him with her arm outstretched. She had what looked like a large, coloured marble, the size of a tennis ball, held out in the palm of her hand. She nodded at it frantically, as though she was insisting that he take it. The thing was glowing and something decidedly weird was moving around inside it!

It was at this point, just like any computer user who had got completely lost in several screen menus, he clicked on ‘Home’.

That was yesterday. Today he hoped his guru friend would understand. He probably would. After all, he was a good sort.

Anyway, that’s what brought him here.

He couldn’t help wandering what was going on.

He sat, yet again, thinking about it all. He had the strangest feeling that something wasn’t right. Although that didn’t make any sense. Every time he comes back to the surgery, he is told they couldn’t find anything wrong with him. Everything indicates that he is perfectly fit and healthy. Despite this, they keep having him come back to do more tests. He knows he is getting tired of the whole thing. Every time he comes here, the results are the same. They say they can’t find anything, then send him home again. He knows he only has to wait a few, long, stretched-out days, and sure enough he’d get another call. A call, just like all the others. He really was sick of it! He leant forward, so that he could see the clock. He’d been avoiding this. He felt it would make him feel worse if he knew how long he’d been sitting here. He did a quick mental calculation. He sighed, shaking his head. It was unbelievable! It had been almost three hours!

He would have to say something.

Finally, the doctor came back into the room. He sat down slowly, staring at his patient. “I’m sorry about the wait. I’ve just logged out of a symposium; an international conference, if you like, with several medical specialists worldwide. In recent weeks there have been several of these.”

He shuffled a few papers around on his desk. He went on, “As a result, I have just had extra tests verified.” He laced his fingers and rested his chin on them. “You need to understand that your condition is in no way normal, in fact, it appears to be absolutely unique.”

He paused for a moment, as if he was reluctant to go on.

“At first, I thought you only appeared to be dead, but now, I’m sure of it. Yes, you are, without any remaining shadow of doubt, dead.”

As a patient, he seemed to go into a complete daze. Nevertheless, he managed to blurt out the ridiculous question, “Can you fix it?”

With a hopeless expression, the doctor said, “Well now, there’s the rub, d’you see? None of us have ever been trained in the business of treating the dead… you do see my dilemma, I hope?”

“Yes, I suppose I can.”

“That’s good. I suppose I could treat your case as a mental one, rather than as a physical condition. After all, physically there’s nothing wrong with you; nothing that I can find, anyway. What do you think?”

“Yes, if that’s what you recommend.”

With that, his doctor prepares a referral and hands it to him.

As he left the surgery, he was still feeling gobsmacked from learning the full nature of his condition. He was left with the knowledge that neither he, nor his doctor, nor any of the international medical specialists knew what to do about it.

On his way to where he may have left his car, he couldn’t help wondering… who is it that writes this stuff!

She sits in the corner of the room, staring at the phone.

She wants it to ring. She wants it to ring for her, her mistress, her provider. She who rescued her from that noisy place, with all those others. She who brought her here and gave her a home. She who feeds her and gives her love. She who represents her entire world. She who looks at the telephone every time she walks past the place where it sits, silent. She who waits for him to call. She knows how happy it will make her when he does. He hasn’t been here for such a long time. They both have to wait for him to return.

For now, she waits with her mistress. She purrs extra loud when she’s on her lap to make her feel better, but… she feels a bit; she doesn’t know what… She is sure humans have a word for it.

There is only so much that a cat can do.

He was around her age and was always getting top marks for writing stories.

He was nice-looking and always polite. They were in the same class and would sometimes talk. She obviously looked up to him. It was probably more than mere admiration. Anyway, things took a major turn, quite out of the blue, when they somehow found themselves chatting about their favourite school subject and he said he would help her with her story writing. She couldn’t believe it; she was thrilled! It was obvious that they both had a love of writing in common, maybe it went beyond that! It was during a lunch period in the school canteen when he made the offer. The thought that he was willing to give up his time to give her some pointers was amazing.

It was agreed that she finish the story she was working on and then let him see it. They also decided that the canteen would be quiet near the end of lunch break, and it would be ideal if they sat at the corner table away from the door. He said they could sit there and he would read it when it was finished.

It was only a couple of days later, before first class, that she let him know she had finished her story and had brought it in to show him.

At lunchtime, when the place was almost empty, they met at the table and she handed him a copy of her story. She couldn’t help noticing the serious expression that came over him, as he took it from her.

At first, she was amazed at how long it took him to read it. She was even more surprised with what happened next. He was pouting his lips and slowly shaking his head when he looked up.

His first comment was that her plot was weak!

She was shocked to think that he should think that. She had barely got over this when he went on to say that the whole thing was overly wordy. He had also noticed an issue with her switching tenses. As well as this, he felt that she had not done enough research on her subject. He said that generally, her characterisation was poor. He felt that they were oversimplified. He considered that they came across as flat and much too generic, and the dialogue was poor and certainly needed work. He also noted that she had used a lot of clichés. He pointed out that these should be avoided. Generally speaking, he thought there was certainly too much completely unnecessary descriptions and details in her work.

He paused momentarily, for his critique to sink in.

Knowing full well that this first get-together would be their last, she smiled, thanked him, and quietly returned to class.

Yes, that’s what he wants; world dominance!

Above all else, he yearns to be the supreme leader. He needs to be the ruler of everything, the world and all its peoples. In fact, the unchallenged head of everything. The goal has always been there. From his verry earliest memories, as a young child. Throughout his school years, the burning desire was continually driving him. He wasn’t sure how it would be managed, but it was ordained, it was his destiny. He knew, without any doubt, that it would come to pass. He need not worry. It would come about as surely as the sun rises with each new day!

All he has to do is wait…

He had only just sat down, when he was asked the really cunning question.

He’d had been given a lot of sound advice on the subject, if this should be asked. Fortunately for him, it had been thoroughly explained how he should take care how he replied to such a question. Under no circumstances should he say that the money is needed to pay the rent and feed himself, or because he is impressed with the interviewer’s professional manner, or how friends have told you what a good company it is, or that he feels he would make a valuable contribution as a member of staff. No, none of these would definitely clinch the job for him.

The interviewer had kept a straight face when he had asked, “Why do you want to work here?”

He was ready for this: the byword here, was honesty.

He said, “This building happens to be really handy because it is directly opposite to my favourite coffee house, where I have a loyalty card that gives me a free coffee whenever it gets its tenth stamp.”

His application failed.

Mist floating through dawning hours.

Sun and birds come out together.

–

Soft wingbeats from Cabbage Whites.

Bee-buzz sounding from open petals.

New colours form in sunlit hedgerows,

Cobwebs hide between the leaves.

–

Insects take their chosen paths,

Tiny gatherings to and fro.

–

Gusting breezes rattle branches,

Unhinged leaves fall wherever.

–

Berries shine and grow.

Ripening fruit becoming luscious.

–

Subtle movements,

In a noisy world.