Author: Alexander Fawn

Snowman sat spinning slowly in his swivel chair.

On each round he looked down at the ‘enter’ key. His excitement was building. Just one tiny click, that’s all it would take. Just a tiny amount of pressure applied to the black, rectangular button and a torrent of digital chaos would make its way out into cyber-space.

It would just sit there like a spider watching its web. It would crouch there in a dark corner of the vast abyss, just waiting to be brushed against. Waiting for the first of the poor souls to let it in.

Snowman, that was his hacker’s name, had spent months developing this particular virus. It was going to be the best ever. Why was he holding off? He wasn’t sure; maybe just building the tension, savouring the moment that he would only know once.

He looked at all the scribbled papers, accumulated over the time he had spent, making notes and cutting code. He, like a spider, lurked unseen in the dingy basement of his grandmother’s house. Looking after her and running errands was a small price to pay for such anonymity.

He already had a couple of high profile attacks to his unheralded credit, all written on this very keyboard. As far as he could tell, no one had any real idea who he was. He talked occasionally to other hackers, but not very often. They knew the Snowman, but had never been able to trace him. His work, with its signature, was in some ways legendary, but not the person.

What was he? A cyber terrorist? A revolutionary with an axe to grind? Was he out to make money or to steal what wasn’t his? No, not really. He was doing it simply because he could. He needed no further reward than that; the accomplishment of it alone was enough.

He spun again and looked down at the keyboard. The programming was in place. Ready to launch a digital influenza that the world would not forget. The fact was, despite being the Grand Master of the ones and zeros, he really had no idea how powerful this nasty germ really was. This virus would not announce itself. It would be invisible one minute, then go hurtling through countless terminals and servers the next.

He leaned forward slowly. His finger hovered. He pressed…

Several moments passed… then minutes.

It didn’t work…

He had been in a big hurry, the morning he found out that Doris wasn’t dead.

He left the house and climbed into his car before noticing the note under his wiper. He sat staring at it for a moment. How could that happen? The car had been in the garage all night. Nobody would have access to get in and stick a note on it. He was annoyed because he was in a hurry. The meeting was an important one, and he was the chair this month. People were relying on him and he couldn’t let them down.

He got out and slammed the door. That made him feel a little better. He put his glasses on and pulled out the paper. A piece of paper, that’s all it was. It must have got trapped under the wiper coming home in the rain last night. It had been very late and in the dark he hadn’t seen it. Swearing, he yanked angrily on the door handle. It wouldn’t budge.

He peered in through the side window at his keys. They included his house key. That meant he couldn’t get into the house to get the spare car key. He looked at his watch. He didn’t want anyone else chairing the meeting, but it wasn’t looking good. He could break in of course. The house alarm was set, and the last time this had happened it was a nightmare. He had managed to get in through a window, setting off the alarm. The security company contacted the police. It took ages to convince them that he really was the homeowner.

He wandered around the side of the house looking for a window that wouldn’t trip the alarm. There was a small window on the second floor that probably wasn’t connected. Too high for any would-be burglar to attempt.

He took the ladder from the shed and leaned it against the house. At the window he stared at the fixings. He figured he could jimmy it open without too much trouble. He returned to the shed, shaking his head as he looked at his watch. He found a tyre lever and climbed back up. He carefully prized the window open. He nearly fell when the siren went off.

An hour later, the police had gone, and he was sitting in the lounge analysing the events of the morning. He was summing it all up. The night before he had come home late and had to record the latest episode of his favourite mystery show. Was Doris really dead? He had to ask the really hard question of himself; deep down, what were his priorities?

He called in sick and switched the telly on and started the recorder…

Words are the powerful tools of life.

They give meaning, create and define.

They’re the bridge to communication,

Both by reason and design.

–

No matter what the language;

Regardless of the tongue.

They serve to paint a picture,

Either written, said or sung.

–

A word can come as a caution, a command or a name;

A direction, or advice or a view;

An instruction, a prompt, an oath or a warning.

To name only a few.

–

They may come as a curse or a verse;

Part of a poem or song;

Building blocks for so many things,

Good, bad, right and wrong.

–

Soft words of care for a dying friend.

An angry shout in a brawl.

Some words come tumbling and cascading out,

While others tremble and stall.

–

Some words go unnoticed,

While some demand trust and respect.

Some are met with disbelief,

Some have a great effect.

–

Whether it’s ink on paper or carvings in wood,

Scratched clay or keyed to a screen;

Cut into stone, or etched onto bone,

Words tend to say what they mean.

Clues hidden in secret places.

Prophesies painted in caves.

Profanities scribbled in toilet blocks.

Epitaphs posted on graves.

–

Words are so very powerful,

Of that there is no doubt.

But by the same token,

When words are not spoken,

My word, they can really shout!

It seemed to be a day like any other when it all started.

Slowly, the people became aware of something happening in the street. Two men stood in full view, glaring at each other. They had always had issues, niggling resentments, and suspicions. They stood like that for hours. It was embarrassing, so for the main part people ignored them.

The next day they could be seen standing in the same place, but now they were arguing. People wondered whether they had really been there all night. Some watched, some ignored, while others were becoming concerned.

On the following day they were still there. Now they were shouting abuse at each other. Word had got around and the onlookers grew in number. They all had their own ideas about what should be done about it. At the very least, it wasn’t good that this dispute was becoming more and more public.

The following day people woke to the sound of a lot of clattering in the street. The two men were now yelling and screaming, and throwing stones at each other. Passers-by had to be careful where they walked. Some voiced concerns about their children. There were still those who thought that it would just blow over in time.

The next day the men had clubs and knives and were beating and stabbing at each other. Both parties were becoming tired and were showing their scars. Each one had broken bones and bleeding from several wounds. This continued into the night and there was a common belief that it would only get worse.

Day after day this same scene played out, while each of the men grew weaker, but with no signs that their resolve to beat the other was diminishing.

One morning, after several weeks, the people went out to find the two still fighting ferociously. On this occasion a stranger stood watching the fight. The people saw this as an opportunity to get an unbiased opinion and a possible solution to their ongoing problem. He was asked if he could suggest what could be done to put an end to this unusual state of affairs.

The stranger smiled and said “It’s not so unusual really. Haven’t you noticed? There are entire countries out there doing exactly the same thing!”

”I’ve made up my mind,” said Williams, looking up from his desk.

“Oh, yes?” grunted the man across the room.

“Yes, I have finally decided to leave.”

“Leave? Leave Pritchard’s? Come on; you’ve got to be kidding.”

“No, I am not kidding. I have thought it all out most carefully. I am leaving!”

Dawson let the papers drop back into the file drawer. “My God! You’re serious!” he stammered, and dragging a chair to the desk, sat opposite the other. “Why in God’s name would you…?”

“Dawson! How many times must I ask you not to take the name of the Lord…?”

“Yes. Yes. I’m sorry Mr Williams. You were saying?”

“Hm. Indeed I was. I was saying that all this,” he gazed slowly around the office, almost sadly, “all this is about to become a memory; nothing more!”

“But your watch Mr Williams, what about your watch? Only eighteen months away. Only four people have ever received gold watches from Pritchards!”

“I know lad, I know,” sighed Williams, “Margaret will certainly be upset about that.”

“You mean she doesn’t know?”

The older man shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Well, no. Not exactly.” He forgot some of his superiority. “I haven’t as yet broached the subject with my wife. These things have to be thought out carefully before any real commitments are made. You’d do well to remember that, Dawson!”

“Yes, sir.” Replied the clerk, looking a little down at the mouth. “You are actually going to leave then, sir. I mean, this office, this desk?”

“Cheer up lad,” encouraged the manager with a grin, “things aren’t so bad you know. Why! With a good word from me the company may look past your lack of years and give you the office. Think of it Dawson! This time next month you could be running the whole show!”

It was Dawson’s turn to shuffle in his chair. His hand swept down his face, as though removing some unwanted emotion.

“What will you do?” He asked.

“Oh. I don’t know,” said Williams, lounging in his chair, “probably do a bit of fishing. Never really caught up with my fishing, you know.” He looked almost lovingly at Dawson. “Ever fish?”

Dawson shook his head.

“Great sport.” the old man crowed. “Nothing quite like it for relaxing after a hard week at the…” he realised what he had nearly said. He reddened a little, and added, “That’s all behind me now.”

The older man leaned towards his colleague in the gesture that foreshadowed a confidence.

“We do have a little put by. Don’t really have to wait till I’m almost dead to enjoy it.”

“To be quite frank with you,” said the younger man, also leaning forward slightly, “I don’t think I’d care to stay if you went, sir.”

The old man looked deeply into Dawson’s moist eyes. He made another decision. He straightened.

“Look, Dawson, you’re not to take too much notice of me, you know. I have these fancies from time to time.”

The other man brightened.

“After all,” he continued, “an old man is quite entitled… for goodness sake! Where’s last month’s receipt file? I asked for it fifteen minutes ago!”

Crisis over, Dawson glowed.

Erica opened one eye and gazed at the ringing telephone with venomous loathing. She was the sort of person who believed that ringing telephones were the cause of half the troubles in the world.

“Communication is the root of all evil,” she thought to herself, as she tried to ignore the vile instrument. But closing her eyes again brought no relief. It continued to ring. Not for the first time, she wished that the phone company would turn off all phones at midnight.

One arm snaked out from beneath the bedclothes, clicked on the bedside light and picked up the phone. “It had better not be you again,” she hissed into the phone. Her sister Janice had been having some sort of man trouble again, and for the best part of a month she had been incessantly calling for sympathy and advice.

She half-twisted in the bed and propped herself up on her arm. Her hair had tumbled over her face, obscuring her view as she tried to look at the time on the bedside clock.

“Oh honey, did I wake you up? Thank God you’re there.” came the slurred voice, evidently that of a man who was feeling the effects of much too much drink. It wasn’t Janice. She didn’t recognise the man’s voice. He sounded pathetic, and very drunk. She was waking up now.

Erica had always had a devilish streak in her. She was the sort of woman who, even in the wee small hours, could still muster a sense of humour. This guy sounded interesting. He had obviously misdialled. Erica just loved practical jokes. She could keep a straight face under the most difficult circumstances, when she was having someone on.

“Do you know what time it is?” she rasped into the mouthpiece, holding back any trace of humour in her voice. “Why the hell do you call me in the middle of the night? What’s the matter with you?” She smirked as she waited for the man’s reply.

“Did I wake you up? Did I wake you up, honey? Aw Hell! I’m sorry. I kept on telling myself not to call. I kept on telling myself not to call you at this time, in the middle of the night. Are you mad? Did I make you angry?”

She squinted again at the bedside clock and was able to make out the time; 2:30am. She removed the phone from her ear, cupped the mouthpiece and managed a soft giggle; then, with a deep breath she put the phone back to her ear. His voice was still droning out at her.

“… did I? Are you awake? Did I disturb you? I’m sorry honey. Really!. You don’t know how bad this makes me feel.”

She cut in on him, “Look. Do you have any idea what time it is?”

There was a pause in the conversation for a moment.

Then he spoke again. “I woke you up, didn’t I? And now you’re annoyed. Now you’re annoyed. I knew you would be. I told myself not to phone. I knew you would be annoyed. Now I’ve got you all upset. Aw hell! I’m sorry honey.”

“Don’t you honey me! Not at 2:30 in the bloody morning. I’m hanging up on you.” She lifted bedding to her mouth to muffle a laugh.

“No. No. Don’t hang up, honey. I just called to say I was sorry about last night. Hell! I’m so sorry. I mean, I didn’t mean to hurt you, honestly I didn’t. I just wanted to see if you were alright. Are you still mad at me?”

“Of course I’m mad with you. You phone me at this time in the morning to tell me this? Listen, I’m going to hang up. I mean it.” Erica reached out and grabbed the pack of cigarettes. She was really enjoying this and wanted to make the most of it.

“How are things with you baby? Are you OK?” he slurred.

Erica took a puff at her cigarette and blew smoke silently across the room. She took the grin off her face and said “Listen you pathetic drunk. I’m OK. I just need to get back to sleep. Now I’m going to hang up.”

“I’m so sorry for what happened.” He went on. “I thought you were dead… I was convinced you were dead.”

Erica pulled the phone out in front of her and frowned at it. This was getting a little weird. But of course drunks can go on about all sorts of strange stuff without knowing what they are saying. She decided to hang in there.

“No, I’m not dead, just dead tired. Now will you get off the line or do I have to call the police?”

The caller fell silent. “No! Baby, don’t do that! No need for that. But you are mad aren’t you?”

“Yes! Of course I’m mad at you, you freak. Now get off the line.” Erica was surprised at the sharpness in her voice. Was she overplaying her part? She relaxed with the man’s reply.

“Yes. You told me I’m a freak. You did, didn’t you?” He didn’t wait for a reply. ”Thank God your OK. I’m sure I saw blood. Perhaps I didn’t. I thought I saw blood on the poker, lots of it. Perhaps I just wanted to see your head split open with blood oozing out… you know, because of what you said… because I was so mad with you”. He paused. “But I’m not mad now. I hope you’re not mad with me. Are you mad with me, baby?”

Erica felt that the whole thing was taking on a new aspect; and it was one she didn’t really care for. She had had her fun but wasn’t enjoying the game now.

Her voice was now genuinely serious. “Now look, OK, whoever you are, I will certainly call the police if you ring back, and I am definitely going to hang this phone up right now”.

“Whoever I am? Oh baby. What did that bump on the head do to you? Whoever I am?”

Erica was confused. “That’s it! I’m hanging up now!”

“OK! OK! Goodnight Janice.”

Erica heard the phone click. As she began to think about her sister Janice, the room filled with an eerie silence.

The one thing that you could say about him was that he was unlucky.

He’d been plagued with bad luck all his life. Things would go smoothly for a while, then right out of the blue, he would do something that sent him straight back into the hard life. Despite all the warnings his mother had given him through the years, sooner or later he would fall foul of some superstition or other.

He had broken mirrors, stepped on cracks, put shoes on tables, spilt salt, crossed paths with black cats, opened umbrellas indoors, got out of bed the wrong side and walked under ladders. If there was anything a person could do that would bring bad luck, he did it!

But today… today could be different.

He woke from an incredibly vivid dream that stayed with him well into the morning. It had shown him that things could change. Over and over the image of a horse named Chancer, carrying a number five, continually came back to him. A check of the paper told him that there really was a horse with that name running today, at odds of five to one.

After scraping together as much cash as possible he went down to the betting office, laid his bet and sat watching the race being televised.

It came fifth.

If the lack of beauty in modern buildings

Engenders a sense of abhorrence,

These feelings are made far more intense

When spending time in Florence.

The medieval bridge of Ponte Vecchio,

With its structure, centuries old.

Il Duomo, with so many steps,

And piazzas, where statues stand bold.

The Uffizi Gallery’s majesty, crowded with works of art.

The endless steps of the Campanile Tower,

With a clanging bell to boot.

The Gallery Academia flowing with treasures;

With statues and gardens en route.

Towers, fountains, columns and domes,

Under a sky of peacock blue.

Monuments, bridges, and countless streets,

With the Arno flowing through.

Such beautiful buildings everywhere,

All standing since centuries past.

Their imposing splendor proudly displayed;

These structures were built to last.

The Medici’s once held great sway in this place,

With a dynasty of three hundred years.

At a time, while viewing the state of things,

A desire for renewal appears.

Those wonderful renaissance years.

Resulting in vast museums, overflowing with Florentine art.

Inspired? No doubt whatsoever;

By the likes of da Vinci, Botticelli and Dante,

Well… they changed the world forever!

He was a nice and completely normal kid, that is, before he started reading the book.

The boy he played with was interested in a book about phobias. He had found it on his grandfather’s bookshelf. It was catching! They read it together over a period of several months. When his friend’s family moved away his friend left him the book, as he seemed to have become obsessed with it. The book had a strange effect on him, although he didn’t know it at first.

He had arachnophobia, the fear of spiders, but there again, he’d always had that. No, it started with Butch, a dog in the neighbourhood he had been very friendly with. As the dog approached wagging his tail the hairs went up on the boy’s neck. This had to be cynophobia, the fear of dogs.

As the days passed he found he was eating less, finally he virtually stopped eating. He referred to the book. It was Cibophobia, the fear of food. He was becoming quite thin, while regularly checking himself in the mirror, that is until catoptrophobia set in; the fear of mirrors.

It was around this time that his parents became concerned. They tried to find out what was happening with their son. This didn’t work out too well since he had developed both Androphobia, the fear of men, and gynophobia, the fear of women. They had wanted him to see a doctor but he knew that wasn’t going to happen, the book explained that he was suffering from Iatrophobia, the fear of doctors.

Life for him became worse as nyctophobia, the fear of darkness, anthropophobia the fear of people and somniphobia the fear of sleep, all took him over. He found that he couldn’t even play games on his mobile as he had developed a morbid fear of technology, technophobia.

Eventually he saw it coming, creeping up on him slowly but surely.

It was panophobia – the fear of everything!

Tom was looking up into a blue sky singing softly to himself as he walked back from the local railway station.

Despite his present mood, it hadn’t been a good year for Tom. He and Lorraine had been going out for the best part of a year. It seemed that the more time they spent together the more he realised that they had very little in common. They had different tastes in music, food, sport; and even their ideas of what a good movie was differed greatly. Yet they had stayed together.

None of these personal differences seemed to bother her. She was quite happy to ignore it all. Tom wasn’t.

It all came to a head for him when he met Claire-Lea. She was everything he wanted in a partner. They shared the same views about almost every topic that came up. They felt absolutely natural together. But of course, this new friendship had only made Tom’s situation worse. He wanted desperately to tell his girlfriend that someone had come into his life that he would really prefer to be with, but he couldn’t. He just couldn’t bring himself to tell her. And so it dragged on. Until a week ago that is.

They had planned to go with others to a bowling alley but Lorraine had called to say something had come up, and could they just meet at the coffee house instead.

As they sat down at the table that evening he knew something was wrong. She started by apologising for what she was about to tell him; she told him how bad she felt. The fact of the matter was she had been offered a better job several towns away. A girl she had been to school with was already there and had a nice little flat that she could move straight into. The rent was cheap and it was incredibly close to the office. It was all too perfect to pass up. She had already accepted. She hadn’t known how to tell him.

Tom hid his real feelings of relief, but said that he understood what an opportunity it was. Looking suitably sad, he walked her home. At her door he had agreed to be at the station to see her off on the following weekend.

He was looking up into a blue sky, softly singing to himself…

“I can see Claire-Lea now Lorraine has gone…”