Author: Alexander Fawn

He was sitting in one of the best restaurants in the city.

The duck à l’orange was cooked to perfection and the oaked chardonnay was an excellent year. He was waiting for the man who would bring him the news in person; his accountant. The money he had made by taking an outside chance on the stock exchange would set him up for life. It had been a risky investment, but the results were truly staggering. He started writing figures on his napkin. He could well afford to be generous, a million here and a million there. For himself, quite apart from the new house, he had always wanted a Lamborghini Gallardo. Now, nothing could be simpler…

As the ideas for his latest story faded, he came out of his reverie chilled. Yes, this was good, he thought; I’ll type it up now before it goes. He pushed the skimpy bedding to one side and sat on the edge of his bed. He looked around at his tiny attic room. It was a hovel. He sat shivering. Then, he thought about the small electric fan heater he’d seen on sale. If I saved up for a couple of weeks, he thought, I could buy one!

It’s a great panacea, we call it the Net,

But it has to be said with a note of regret

That it really isn’t a flawless asset.

–

It seems that it is with dangers beset,

Like children playing with a chemistry set,

Or the unseen underworld-crimes onset,

With some of it being too hard to reset.

–

As for the developers, we are in their debt,

Sadly it’s something we tend to forget,

But an issue-free system is thus far unmet.

–

Was it something not seen at the Web’s outset?

The chance of corruption, always a sure bet,

And although a great many dreams have been met,

With users taking on a different mindset.

–

Some of it’s like a game of roulette,

With parts of it seen as a positive threat,

And so many sites being so hard to vet,

It’s used to stir up trouble, no sweat,

With scandals and lies causing upset,

No remedy for this has been found, as yet.

All this, since we were connected to the Internet.

But… despite these flaws, we worry and fret

When the bloody thing is hard to get!

His visitor never really understood why his friend gave so much time to his chosen hobby.

On this occasion, he found him agonising over a muon. In his past chats, he’d been told that his ideas for stories came from news items, newspapers, internet articles, personal experiences, memories, dreams, conversations, people he’d known, and sometimes relying mostly on imagination. He was continually typing up such items in the form of brief drafts. These, he regularly goes back to and converts them to short stories, he then posts these on his weekly blog. He says they are brief snatches from life, with the occasional items of science fiction and fantasy thrown in. On this occasion however, he was struggling with a muon.

The visitor was saying, “OK. What’s a muon, anyway?”

“It’s like an electron, but it’s unstable.”

His visitor smiled. “OK. Go on.”

“It is something similar to an electron, but like I say, it’s unstable. It may be positively charged, but with a mass over two-hundred times greater.”

With a shrug, the other said, “Is that anything special?”

“It certainly is, because it gives rise to the Muon Paradox.”

The other smiled again. “You don’t say.”

“I do.”

“Go on then. What’s the paradox.”

“Alright. This may not be the textbook answer to your question, but the muon is a fundamental subatomic particle. It has an extremely short lifespan of just a couple of microseconds. They travel to our planet over long distances at speeds that come close to the speed of light.”

“So?”

The writer gazed around the room. “Well, when you consider how brief their existence is, you’d expect them in their allotted time to merely travel from one side of this room to the other! That’s the paradox, right there, d’you see?”

“To be honest, no, not exactly. I take it it’s your intention to get this into one of your short stories?’

“Well, in the case of the muon, as interesting as it is, I have my doubts. Not all ideas get written into stories. I must say, this one probably falls into that category. I did think I would have some young school boy come up with a solution to the paradox and amaze his science teacher, but I gave that away.”

His visitor actually felt sorry for him, and said, “Never mind, I’m sure you have many other ideas that are far simpler and easier to understand, that you can convert to blog items.

“Simple. Yes, you’re right there. I do try hard to keep them that way.” With a grin, he said, “I’m sure there are those who would say that so much of what I write is absurd and quite foolish, and they could be right. However, I have readers from all around the world that leave comments of appreciation. Needless to say, I put my stories on my blog for them.”

Anyway, I’m sure you’ve known me long enough to have figured out that basically, I write these silly little stories for my own amusement.”

The visitor said, “Yes, I suppose I do.”

The writer said, “Shall I put the kettle on?”

In this garden, where time stands still, and the monstrous machine that is Istanbul hides further down the valley.

In this small, green paradise a person may become lost in thoughts of things other than…bustle, noise, confusion, haste, pollution, clamour and stress.

In this place soft, green, beauty pervades the air and the scent of nature’s perfume relaxes the senses and lulls and eases the busy brain.

Here, behind the fortress, above the mighty Bosporus one can listen to the sounds of peace and contentment.

 In such a place; in such a garden, the love and grace of God himself may settle quietly in the human heart.

Even as a child she had admired the coffer that sat on her uncle’s mantelpiece.

It didn’t look particularly expensive but her uncle had said it was an heirloom that had been passed on down through many generations. Even as a small child the thing didn’t look that old. However, he always insisted that it was really precious. As a youngster she loved looking at the delicate floral designs. She had never been able to open it. When she was older she asked about it. He had said that it contained something that was priceless and that is why it was always locked. As the years went on and visits to his house grew less and less, she had later been informed that the key for it was hidden somewhere in the house and would be found when the right time came. Then, at a time later still, she was told that the coffer would be left to her in his will, along with the key.

If nothing else, being told this had left her with a feeling of intrigue, but she had forgotten all about it until she heard that he had died. As a young woman now she attended the funeral with her parents. Sometime later, after the will was read, she received word that, as promised, the coffer was with his solicitor at his office and could be collected when convenient.

She certainly felt a sense of excitement the day she called in. Sure enough, the item was there in an old cotton bag. Before she left, the solicitor opened a safe and handed over the key separately.

When she got home she went to her room and opened it.

It was empty.

The truth of the matter was, she had never liked him.

He sent her a text saying that he was sorry and that he wanted them to make up.

The text she sent back read; I’d like you to think about yourself as a disease that people should stay away from. I want you to see yourself as being a bucket with a large hole in it. I’d like you to consider yourself to be an inoperable cancer. I think you should regard yourself as an old connection that is now disconnected. Like a broken link in a chain. Like a visitor who is forbidden entry. Like an unregistered vehicle. Like a spare tyre that’s flat. Like an outdated piece of electrical equipment with a blown fuse that are no longer manufactured. Like being a piece of failing apparatus with no reset button. Like spam that clutters up a messaging service. Like a webpage that can no longer be found. Like a program that should be uninstalled. Like a virus that has entered a system. Like a corrupt file, that is best deleted. Like the blue screen of death. I would like you to see yourself like this. Does that answer your question? Please don’t respond to this.

He replied immediately.

You’re still upset then?

She walked the short distance from the bus stop to the house alone.

She found the envelope with her name on it waiting on the kitchen table when she got home. Her mother had obviously put it there, knowing quite rightly that she alone should open it. Sitting alone in her room she thought back to the argument. Nobody heard the harsh words that passed between them; words that she alone responded to with such growing emotion. Only she knew the hand that had scrawled her name across the envelope. She knew that it was proper that she alone read the note that the young man had delivered.

No one saw her leave in the dead of night. Quite alone, she closed the door silently and left the house. Nobody saw her walk to the edge of the village where the river ran beneath the bridge. No one witnessed her clambering to the top of the bridges stone wall. No one saw her standing there, clutching the note. Nobody saw her fall, and nobody heard the splash coming from the dark waters below.

No one was privy to any of this… not even her.

She alone would know this story. Only she would know that this series of events, the entirety of which, from the moment she received his note, only played out in her mind. In truth, apart from being alarmingly overimaginative, she was a perfectly sensible person.

In fact, without hesitation, she flushed the note down the toilet.

He was laying on a gurney, unconscious.

The place was very busy, naturally. There was so much going on that staff who would normally be going about their duties in a calm and professional manner were rushed off their feet and looking frazzled. The nurse stood looking down at him.

“Who is he, do we know?”

The other nurse replied, looking at paperwork. “Yes, just came through. Male nurse; in civvies because he was about to go home when his shift ended. Didn’t make it out the door when he collapsed, apparently.”

“OK. Have him wheeled into 5, I’ll be back.”

When she returned, she took his vital readings and asked, “How are you doing there?”

His eyelids fluttered and he whispered, “Coughs and fevers, viral outbreaks, Isolation…” he drifted off again.

After making notes, she tried again. “How are you doing now?”

His eyes remained closed, but his lips moved. “Longer hours,” he murmured. His mouth gaped open. “Information overload,” he rambled, “ “working long hours, day-care closing, meetings cancelled, new rituals, new working from  home, long days, double shifts, social media, test results, texts, phone calls, emails, balancing roles, bed capacities, benefits provided, change of shifts, control the spread, disclosure process, drop off samples at the lab, filling out surveys, impossible choices, lives on the line, notifying volunteers, ordering supplies, overworked, palliative care, physical distancing, pulling together, requesting funds, rescheduling, screening patients, twenty-four hour emergency, voluntary shifts, hand washing…” His hands twitched and he fell silent.

“All right, just rest now,” she said and went to move away.

He began mumbling again.

“The … the critically ill, destructive virus, visitors gone, fogged up shields, plastic gowns, alarms, eyes burning, struggling to live, numbers surging, transmitting disease, stimulating the economy, weighing emotions, world struggling, worry for colleagues, mourning patients, oxygen dependent, flatten the curve, front line, clinic, medical community, closed airports, atypical pneumonia, cerebral blood supply, checking profiles, negative results, social distancing, religions, meetings, politics, quarantining, chronic illnesses, elbow bumping, eyelids fluttering, drawing blood, cranial nerves, developing vaccines, crisis, discharges, shift endings, congestions, dying alone…” Again, his rambling stopped.

“All right, I’ll be back soon,” she said.

Shortly after, she was back, explaining the situation to the doctor. “Delirious then?” he conferred. “I know things are tough, but try to keep an eye on him.” He smiled and left.

She was straightening the bedding when he started again. “Goggles and shields, gloves and wipes, cans of disinfectant, masks, hand sanitizer, antibiotics, schedules, screening, respirators, face shields, PPE, trauma centre, sterile room, hospital beds, personnel files, hand sanitizer, masks, suits, nose swabs, tests, endless tests…” It ended with a sigh.

She was taking his temperature again when he grunted and said, “Service workers, parents, doctors, teachers, social visitors, frontline staff, nurses, essential staff, medical assistants, clinicians and leaders, discharge teams, administrators, colleagues… the chaplain.”

She went to say something when he started up again, this time in a louder and more understandable voice. “New found modes of communication across the globe, a truly global pandemic.” He frowned. “All those at most risk, patients struggling, feeling unprotected, the sick and dying, sleep deprived, lung infections, flu like symptoms, anxiety, stress, fear, social distress, cases most likely positive and symptoms of illness, maybe…?” His eyes snapped open and he looked around. He tried to sit up.

She settled him back down.

“Ah! Welcome to this world,” she said, looking around at the general chaos, and paged the duty doctor.

He was an important man.

“No! You don’t understand,” he was saying, “I have a great deal of prestige.”

“Really?” the old man in a white smock said, with a grin.

“Yes. Really. I’m a well-respected citizen. I mean, I’m used to receiving a certain amount of respect. I have followers; people who look up to me. They rely on me to set an example. I’m regularly asked to say a few words at the rotary club dinners. People in the street recognise me and smile. Many of them approach me and shake my hand. For example, whenever I go to the bank the manager always comes forward to deal with me personally.”

“Oh! Yes, yes. That’s all well and good, but it all comes to nothing really.”

“Nothing?”

“Precisely! Nothing.”

The old man poked something in the brazier. He turned back. “When the hotel porter held the door open for you, you didn’t say thank you.”

“Pardon?”

“You didn’t.”

“Didn’t?”

“No. You didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?”

“Didn’t say thank you.”

The man tied to the chair was now sweating. “What of it?”

“Well, there you are, you see?”

“No! I don’t see.”

“Of course you don’t. That’s the problem right there. Right there it is, under your nose. The problem; as plain as plain.”

“But…” the other blurted.

“You silly Billy,” the man cooed, as he picked up the branding iron. It was glowing cherry red. He turned and smiled.

At this point the man’s eyes snapped open. He was in a cold sweat. The bed sheets were wet. He began to think. The night before, when he’d attended the dinner, when he entered the hotel. He remembered climbing the steps, remembered the porter standing back, holding the front door open with a nod of the head…

Then… he remembered.

In and of itself, it was quite remarkable that it should bother thinking about things ephemeral.

It considered a number of things that were fleeting and short-lived. There were envelopes, leaflets, menus, newspapers, pamphlets, invitations, brochures, adverts, bank cheques, posters, stamps, theatre programs, bookmarks, ticket stubs, transport labels, box labels, luggage labels, lottery tickets, flyers and bumper stickers. Of course, there were cards. Yes, all sorts of cards. There were, postcards, birthday cards, greeting cards, bingo cards, library book cards; in fact, too many to mention. Although, it often thought about cards. It goes without saying, humans know nothing of this.

It could even imagine a text message caught in midair, between one phone and another. That was certainly a transient thing. Also, there was social media with its content that was temporary. Some of it only visible for a short time before it disappears, such as Tik Tok and Instagram. They were good examples of ephemeral content.

There was always ephemeral knowledge. All that information with an expiration date. Cases where the actual context in which it is useful is itself quite transitory. Naturally, there were some pieces of information, or even certain skills that are limited in their value by how applicable they were. With respect to skills only used briefly, it had often seen this as a waste.

Again, humans know nothing of this.

However, it, being a dainty mayfly with only a couple of days to live, and as such having the shortest lifespan of any known animal, it was probably best to continue its search for some small insect larvae to eat; that is, if it wanted to live a full life!