Author: Alexander Fawn

Perfection may be found or created,

It comes from within and without.

The sequence of words in a hymn.

A tipping point removing a doubt.

–

A smile that reflects a joy.

A sky that’s the right shade of blue.

A cap that spins free from its neck.

An angle that is looked on as true.

A mosaic of greens in a tree.

A note that flows from a string.

A flavour that is ideal.

The calm that virtue can bring.

–

A painting viewed without fault.

The sky with a setting sun.

A lid snapping softly shut.

A vow that can’t be undone.

–

To see in another what is ideal,

Perfection without a plan.

Not there for those that can’t,

But real for those who can.

She was visiting her friend a few days after the funeral.

It was more like a summons than an invitation. They had been close friends since there school days. Although they were now both in their mid- twenties and both single, while the visitor had no siblings, her friend had recently lost her brother in a fatal car accident. She and her brother had been extremely close and in the main, quite comfortable with sharing confidences. There had only ever been one exception to this. It concerned his most recent home project. Although he had worked in a scientific institution for a number of years, he was continually working on various projects of his own, in the back room of their house. This much, her visitor already knew.

When her friend first arrived, they sat in the lounge with cups of coffee, generally catching up. The bereaved sister knew three things about her friend. The first was that she had regularly been top of their class in mathematics, she had been a covert hacker for a number of years and she often described herself as an accomplished code cracker.

The conversation eventually turned to the project. “I wanted to tell you more about what he was doing,” she began. “Well, you remember what my brother was like, when it came to building things; you know, all sorts of contraptions.”

“Of course.”

“It’s about his latest project. There’s this thing in the back room, some sort of cabinet. It looks like one of those cubicles that you go into and have your photograph taken. I know he was unusually protective of the thing, when he was building it. All in all, he must have spent the best part of three years working on it.”

She paused, thinking about it with a loving grin.

“Anyway, the only time he talked about it, in any detail, was the day before the accident. He said it was some kind of time machine. He said he had successfully used it several times. He swore blind that it worked, and I have no reason to think he was lying.”

She shook her head.

“He told me he wanted to reveal it to the world and was thinking about how he would go about it. He said if it was managed properly, as partners, we would become extremely wealthy and it would remain that way for the rest of our lives.”

She paused. “All of this, the day before he died; the day before the car crash.” At this point, the tears came. She sat sobbing, using several tissues, while her friend sat patiently giving her time and taking in all that she had been told.

When she had recovered, her friend said, “You’re telling me you have a time machine in the back room, that works!”

Still snivelling, the other nodded. “That’s why I contacted you… of course. Apparently, he had worked out a very strong password for it.”

“A password. OK.”

At this, she flapped her hands. “That’s the thing, you see. That’s the problem. The only thing besides the cubicle is a side table that he must have used as a work bench. There’s a small, metal box with a keypad. When you switch it on, a long display panel lights up with a row of seventeen squares. Besides this, there are bits of wire, some electrical equipment and a few tools, and there’s a book.”

Her friend’s eyes lit up.

She went on. “Before you get too excited, I can tell you that I’ve read it cover-to-cover several times and there’s no sign of a password or code. I mean, if you can figure it out, I would be happy for you to replace him… as a partner, of course.”

Her visitor stood up, and with a hint of suppressed excitement in her voice, said, “Okey dokey, let’s take a look.”

In the back room, after spending a few minutes looking at everything and powering up the unit to confirm the panel’s configuration of squares, her visitor picked up the book and began reading.

The other said, “There is a page in there with the heading ‘Password’, but it didn’t help.”

After more reading, the friend said, “I see where he was going. He says here the code should contain upper-case and lower-case letters, numbers and symbols and at least three special characters, in all, at least twelve characters. He obviously used seventeen.”

The other groaned, saying, “You see what I mean. It seems hopeless.”

“Yes, but underneath his notes, here at the bottom,” she held up the page, “he’s pencilled the number seventeen, in brackets.”

The other shrugged.

“Don’t you see? That’s the number of fields the display panel is showing.”

It was then that she realised how much her friend was deluding herself. Giving her a brief smile, she said, “OK. If you think it will help.”

“Well, it’s a start. Can I take the book with me, if I promise to keep it safe?”

“Sure.”

A few minutes later, at the front door, her friend said in a low voice, “I’ll give it my best shot,” then waved goodbye as she walked away.

Waving back, she watched her go.

Good luck with that, she thought.

It had happened within minutes of his walking into the kitchen.

It was first thing in the morning and he was barely awake when he heard the rustling sounds coming from the pantry. Opening the door, he came face to face with a mouse. It sat perched on the top of a jar of sandwich spread nibbling on what looked like a piece of biscuit. It didn’t move, it just sat there. There was no scurrying away, the sort of behaviour that a person in that situation would reasonably expect. No, nothing like that. Its little arms dropped from its mouth and its little head tipped slowly to one side, as if it was asking if it could do something for the human intruder that had just disturbed it while enjoying its breakfast. He was simply mesmerized for several long moments. They just stared at each other for a while… before the mouse spoke.

“Can I do something for you?” it enquired, before going back to its morsel.

After a few beats, and positively amazed at how he was taking the situation so calmly, he managed to blurt out, “Excuse me, did you speak?”

“Yes, of course I did,” came the reply.

Anyway, that’s how it all started.

After making a cup of tea and a couple of slices of toast, they settled down for a chat. He left the door open and pulled up a chair to face the pantry. The mouse explained that only a very small percentage of rodents could actually talk, and hardly any of them actually did. It informed him that it was a field mouse. It went on to explain that it was on its own now. It relayed, in painful detail, how its beloved soulmate had met its end by being eaten by a dog. It was a horrible thing that had radically changed its life. It said how much it missed its beloved Daisy.

It had been quite early on in the conversation that he felt a sense of understanding and empathy for the creature and explained that he too had suffered a loss. He relayed the fact that he could understand its misery as he had lost his wife to a terminal illness a few years back and this had changed his life. It was back then that he left the city and had bought this tiny cottage in the country where he lived alone.

Having discovered this common thread, the tiny rodent became even more verbose. In fact, it just wouldn’t stop talking, mainly about how life wasn’t the same without Daisy, and how much it missed the light of its life.

“Yes,” it was saying, “it was a Westie that got her, my beloved.”

The man only nodded.

“They’re bred to kill rodents, you know?”

“No. I didn’t know that,” he said, trying to sound interested.

“Yes, their proper breed name is the West Highland White Terrier.”

“Oh!” he said.

This went on for some time.

Finally, looking up at the clock he realised that this originally fascinating tête-à-tête had been going for more than an hour and he was definitely tiring of it. Especially the nauseating repetition about how much it missed its Daisy. He was thoroughly sick of hearing about Daisy.

The annoying creature was still rabbiting on about it when he finally excused himself and left the room. He needed a plan. It quickly took shape. Paying absolutely no mind to how much this might hurt its feelings, he returned to the kitchen and found an almost empty box of biscuits. He opened the end and laid it down on the kitchen table. “You can finish these off, if you like,” he said and stood back, adding, “I hope you like digestive biscuits.”

“Love ‘em”, it said, as it hopped down onto the table and entered the box.

At this point, he closed the box, secured it with a rubber band, went out to the car where he put it in the boot, drove for twenty minutes, pulled off the road and parked next to an extensive area of woodlands, retrieved the box, walked into the woods for a further five minutes, found a pleasant spot, removed the elastic band, then trotted back to his car feeling fully confident that he could return home to a bit of well-deserved peace and quiet.

Back in the sanctuary of his cottage, he closed the pantry door, sighed, and switched the kettle on.

The supermarket was very busy with people piling up at the checkouts.

At the back of one of the long lines of shoppers a woman was on her phone. Much to the irritation of many of those around her she was talking very loudly. She was rabbiting on about what she was doing to help save the planet. As she went on it was obvious that people were becoming more and more uncomfortable.

She was saying, “Oh! Yes, my dear, we are very careful about our recycling habits. Quite naturally we voted Green. My husband cycles to work you know and we are both vegan. We always make sure that our purchases have environmental benefits and it goes without saying that we avoid plastic at all costs. We have done our best to green our home as much as possible, you know, and I can assure you we are constantly water wise. We always boycott any of those nasty products that endanger wildlife. Of course, we are very conscious about our carbon footprint, it was for that reason that we chose to have a small family.

She was forced to stop when she had to pay for her purchases. A great sigh of relief and several audible murmurs ran through the crowd. Not that she noticed. She grabbed her bags and left the checkout area, making for the far exit.

When she was well and truly gone, the store’s music stopped, the speakers crackled and a voice came over saying: “On behalf of the supermarket we would like to thank the woman now leaving the store for the admirable contributions she has made with regards to the future of the planet. Thank you.”

It was a pleasantly warm day for sitting quietly in his back garden.

The man had not been there long when he first heard it. He became aware of a mumbling sound in his head. It was like a ringing in his ears, but different. It came in short bursts, a fuzzy sound, a bit like hearing a distant voice coming from a neighbour’s radio, barely audible. As he sat there it became clearer. Then, with a sudden surge of clarity, he heard “Hello!” It was then that he became aware of a large stick insect, sitting on the lip of a nearby flowerpot. As he stared at it, it said, “Yes, it’s me. I’m trying to tell you something. All you have to do is listen.”

Badly shaken, he said, “But you are a stick insect…”

“Yes. Yes. I know. I’ve heard it all before. Don’t get hung up in all that stuff! You humans are far too fond of going into denial when we insects feel we really have something to say.”

The man sat dumbfounded… and told off.

The insect said, “Have I got your attention?”

The man nodded.

The insect said, “Good! OK then. You see that scarlet swamp hibiscus, in the corner there?”

He looked at it. He remembered his late wife had planted it.

“Well, yes,” he said.

“It needs watering.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. These are what you call water-loving plants. If the soil gets too dry they won’t bloom. In fact, they’ll most likely die.”

Looking back at the plant, he heard a great fluttering as the insect took off. He heard a murmured, “Just a suggestion.”

He went inside and Googled it.

She wiped tears away to get a better look at the broken chain.

She doesn’t know how it happened. Did it snag on something? It had simply rested there on the shelf where it had always been. Apart from being a family heirloom, it was priceless. The chain was made of gold. Two of the links had broken open. It was part of an ancient weighty artefact, likewise made of solid gold. It was a piece of art; a mystic winged figure with a head and tail. Part of the chain seemed to be welded to the back of the pendant with no kind of clasp. It was obviously designed to slip straight over the head. She felt wretched about it, after all it was in her care.

Then, the solution came to her. For the very first time she would turn to Norse theology. Not so much theology as mythology. She felt sure that her great grandmother’s book would be the answer. She went to the large, dusty book box in the attic. She found it. The great tome was titled ‘The Elfin Guide’. Back in the lounge she began reading. She found what she was looking for.

That night she would put milk and barley out on the front porch just before she went to bed. Alongside, she would place the wishing dish, another relic handed down. This would contain the broken amulet. She knew that if she did the entire thing perfectly, exactly as described in the book, the elves would come and make any repairs needed before sunrise. To make doubly sure, she read through the relevant passage again.

When the time came, everything was put out.

In the morning she hurried down to check on whether the elves had been; they had. The milk was gone; the barley was gone; and the pendant and the dish were gone!

She had obviously skipped over the first line in the guide. It read, ‘Not all elves are good.’

She had been through a really bad time and the phone call was just what she needed.

She had applied for a job. Now they were on the phone arranging a time for her to go in for an interview. Was it too soon after the trauma of the last few days? The row with her stupid boyfriend. The way it had ended. The feelings that the whole thing had left her with; a strange mixture of relief and anxiety, still plaguing her. Despite this, it was exactly what she wanted; good money, nice people and close to home. Surely, this has to be an opportunity that shouldn’t be ignored. She resolved herself to the fact that she would agree to whatever time was suggested. What she needed to be doing right now was deciding what she would wear.

When the time came, she was smartly dressed and on time. The manager was very nice and took his time explaining the role. However, she did find her focus drifting off and maintaining her full attention was becoming extremely difficult. Had she got back into the everyday world too early? Should she have given herself more time; more time before having to handle a conversation like this? He was saying something about their safety policy. She felt the panic rising, aware of the fact that her whole body was stiffening with the strain of coping with the situation. Now, he was saying she’d be reporting to the department’s head.

All of a sudden, she gasped, and all at once, she thought about a head, well, not just any old head, but the head.

The one wrapped in a towel, at the bottom of her freezer…

He came out of nowhere…

It was as though he materialised in some way, on the empty platform, slapping his gloved hands together against the cold. He smiled at the startled traveller, who had been standing there at the deserted station for some time, waiting for the late train. It was around midnight and the man was feeling exposed to the icy wind that swept along the line. He had just finished wrapping his scarf around his neck even tighter to ward off the chill when the stranger appeared, magically.

“Bitter.”

“Eh?” The traveller jumped visibly.

“The cold… bitter.”

The traveller looked around the station, desperately trying to figure out where the man had come from. “Yes,” he replied.

“Late,” said the stranger.

“Yes, it is.”

The stranger moved closer, giving an embarrassed laugh. “I’ve come here to give you a warning. Look, I know this is all a bit unusual, but you need to know that you’re in danger, mortal danger.”

The man was still reeling from the suddenness of the stranger‘s appearance. He said, “You’re not making any sense… who are you?”

“Not important.”

“No?”

“No. What’s important is that I tell you something. Something you need to know.”

The man went to speak, the other cut him off.

“Your time is being extended. A recent kindness on your part has been observed. Ah! Such benevolence. Because of this, you should let the train go and catch the one that is scheduled to arrive an hour later.”

“What kindness are you talking about?”

“Again, not important.” He raised the palm of his hand and said, “No! The only thing you have to know is what I’ve said. Let the train go; catch the next.”

The traveller stood shaking his head, frowning.

“Of course, you need some kind of proof; something that will convince you to heed the warning.” He paused, then said, “A girl with a red beret will get off the train and give you a smile. This will convince you.” The tracks began to rumble. He waved his hand. “Here it comes”.

The traveller looked up the line and saw the approaching lights. In that moment, looking back, the stranger simply wasn’t there anymore. The traveller looked around and whispered, “Gone!” under his breath. Visibly shaken by the whole incident, he was hardly aware of the carriages screeching to a halt in front of him. Moments later, the girl with the red beret smiled as she passed down the platform with others, heading for the exit gate.

He caught the next train.

He sat, watching the crowds of people milling to-and-fro in the city centre.

They filled the footpaths and criss-crossed the roads, busy with traffic. Amid these, were the less fortunate; the down-and-outs, the beggars and the tramps that live their lives in the gutter, the bums and the have-nots, the destitute and the homeless, the poor and the lonely, and even those well-dressed, but bankrupt and insolvent. Albeit, that each and everyone of these have within them the full potential to live a life that is so much better. He sees all this from atop the street lamp.

Yet, despite all that he sees, the wraith is full of envy as he watches those ingrates that remain in the land of the living.

The man stood operating the machine with one eye on the clock.

He was looking forward to the morning tea break. Just a few minutes to go. He had it in mind to get a large, crusty, cheese roll with his coffee today. The older man, operating the lathe next to him saw him look at the clock, caught his eye and smiled. The bell rang. In the canteen they collected their food and drink and sat together, as usual. They’d known each other a long time. The older man let out a long sigh after removing his mask. The other did the same and they began eating. After a while the older man started the conversation by pointing at his mask.

He said, “I hate those things.”

The other nodded. “Me too.”

Of the two, the older man felt the protocols and the inconveniences of the pandemic far more than the other. He said, “Did you end up going to the café with the guys?”

“Yep.”

“I hear the food’s good there. Never been myself.”

“Yes, it is, and the place has a nice relaxed atmosphere to it.”

“Those mates of yours are from your social club, aren’t they?”

“That’s right.”

The older man hesitated for a bit before saying, “The younger one, you know, I forget his name, isn’t he some kind of conscientious objector?”

“You’re right, he is. He refuses to get the jab on the grounds that it’s never been properly tested.”

“But he went with you anyway.” said the other, more of a statement than a question.

“That’s right.”

“So, he sat in there with you, knowing that he’d never been vaccinated. Was he wearing a mask?”

“Yeah. We talked him into wearing one.” He looked at his friend. “I know what you’re thinking… it was wrong.”

“Well, it was, wasn’t it? When you think about it, going in there untested. He was putting all those people at risk.”

The younger man smiled. “You are right, of course, but I was happy to let it go as a minor indiscretion.”

The other raised his eyebrows. “How come?”

“Look, I know you’re not fond of me going all philosophical on you, but…” He looked at the clock. “In the time allotted to me, I can explain, if you like?”

“Give it a go,” said the other, with a small smile.

“OK. Like most people, I suppose, I have a fair number of acquaintances, and a number of friends, and a small number of really good friends. Like you, these guys fall into the last category. Rightly or wrongly, with those people I am willing to let them commit what you might call a small misdemeanour from time to time, without reproach.”

The other sat thinking for a few beats.

The younger man added, “After all, in the whole scheme of things, people that you really like should be permitted the occasional peccadillo.”

“Occasional what?” Said the other, just as the bell sounded.

The younger man got to his feet and with a broad smile said, “Tell you what, we’ll talk about it lunchtime.”