Author: Alexander Fawn

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!

She had always felt that the Internet had an answer for everything.

There seemed to be no end of handy tips and tricks. There’s using bicarb soda as a carpet deodorant, storing skeins of yarn, using a toothbrush to clean tiles, drawing chalk lines to prevent ants entering the house, removing stubborn stickers, using a brush in your drill, freshening smelly trainers, removing marks from white plates, having a bunch of mint in a room to deter flies, cleaning a sink, using white vinegar as a disinfectant, soaking white socks in salted water before washing them, making a sink tap extender, using vinegar to remove rust, following a safe way of drying wet shoes, putting a crushed aspirin in water to remove sweat stains, storing spools of ribbon, using a blow dryer to remove labels, chopping onions under an exhaust fan, preventing rust stains on can bottoms, organising measuring cups, freshening vacuum flasks, using a shoe storage hanger for odds and ends, all pretty clever stuff!

There’s using hair conditioner to shave legs, cleaning Ugg boots, filling piping bags when frosting, washing plastic toys, sharpening blunt scissors, preventing a zipper from slipping down, keeping avocados fresh, cleaning dull glassware, microwaving dried food with a glass of water, using turpentine to deter cockroaches, quickly chilling wine, removing crayon marks from walls, using foil to preserve bananas, and if that wasn’t enough, there’s even advice on burglar-proofing doors and windows with wooden wedges!

There were disposal solutions, but none of them very good, she thought. There were different methods… acid, rowboat and something heavy, garden interment.

She looked down at the body wrapped up in an old carpet and tied with string.

Frustrated, she muttered, “Who’d have thought disposal would have been such a problem?”

The one thing that a police station doesn’t need is nuisance calls.

The Desk Sergeant finally got off the phone. Being one of the largest stations in the capital city, it received more than its fair share of these types of callers. The gentleman that he had just spoken with was a regular caller. He, and other conspiracy-theorists like him, were forever calling up to let the authorities know what was really going on. They would get calls ranging from princess Diana’s death, faked moon landings, population control by COVID-19, the 9/11 cover-up, JFK’s assassination, the holocaust that didn’t happen, secret societies that were controlling the world, right through to the Earth being flat. The officer duly made a brief note of the call and the time.

He was shaking his head as the Superintendent walked past.

“What now?” Asked the Super.

“Oh! Nothing to bother yourself with, sir. That was Mr Nuisance calling up with another of his crackpot ideas.”

Grinning, the other said, “Go on.”

Tapping his notes with his pen, the Sergeant said, “Something about a group of flying saucers buzzing the city, sir.”

At that moment, they heard screaming coming from outside and a great buzzing sound that was growing louder.

The story never made it to the newspapers.

Only a few knew something about what went on that Saturday morning. What actually followed the incident was never made clear. Nobody saw him arrive. Apparently, he was a scruffy looking man wearing nothing but a loincloth, who was suddenly standing in the middle of the crowd. It was only minutes before the start of the major end-of-season sale at the store. One moment he wasn’t there and the next, he was! Those immediately around him were visibly shocked, and despite their being part of the crush, they slowly backed away. He was soon standing alone in the centre of the shoppers, with all eyes on him. The doorman, who had been responsible for giving the signal for the department store to open, made his way through to the stranger. That’s how it began.

A short time after he found himself sitting in an interview room at the local police station. Someone had found an old lab coat for him and given him a cup of tea. The officer interviewing him had struggled to get any sense out of the man at first, it was as though he was finding it hard to express himself. The policeman persisted with his questioning.

“You say your name is Adam and you can’t give me your address. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you come from, when you appeared I mean, out there in the crowd this morning?”

The man sat more upright, as though he was remembering something. “I come from the garden,” he said. “I have returned because I am responsible.”

The policeman nodded. “Responsible for what?”

“For all this!” He wave his hand around. “I am responsible for the way things are. You have so many troubles here. I was disobedient and this is the result.”

The interviewer made more notes. “By all this, what do you mean?”

“The world, your world now, cluttered with wars and famine and disease.” He wiped tears away with his sleeve. “I disobeyed and brought all this about.”

The policeman got up and left the room.

He would need to make a report…

Quite naturally, he was apprehensive about working with the new coordinator at head office.

The lady that left to start a family was really great. She seemed to have a knack for making things run smoothly. Anyway, all seven trucks were sitting in the yard, with drivers waiting to load. All things being equal they’d be away on time. Today’s assignments of boxes and packages were all stacked in groups along the loading bay. He quickly went through the paperwork once again; just to make sure. He was about to leave his office to hand out the day’s schedules when the phone rang. It seemed very early for a call. He hesitated. He’d really like to get all the vehicles on the road by nine, but it could be important. He answered it.

A timid voice said, “Sorry…” It was a man’s voice, this would have to be the new guy.

“Yes, how can I help?”

“Sorry,” he repeated, “we have to make a couple of changes.”

The Despatch Manager winced. He looked out at the men, who had begun milling around his door. “I was about to give the drivers their schedules,’ he said, “Is it important?”

“Important? Well, I suppose it is.” The new man sounded anxious. “As you know, I’m new on the job, but I wouldn’t be making any last minute changes like this, unless I thought they were necessary.”

The other softened. “OK. Fair enough. What have we got? You said a couple of changes, what are they?”

“Not a couple, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“How many then?”

“Several, actually.”

“Several?”

“Yes, would you like me to read them out for you?”

After a long pause, he said, “Go on.”

After a lot of mumbling and a shuffling of papers, he began. “OK. Assignment 10448 would be better loaded onto truck 3, not 6, and it should take route 37 instead of 12. Assignment 10526 needs to be swapped with 10492. That would mean that trucks 2 and 6 can now both take route 24. Trucks 1, 5 and 7 have no changes to their allotted assignments and can all use route 9, as scheduled.”

The Despatch Manager was silent.

He ended the call.

It was only twenty past nine.

He went home early.

He loved visiting the old woman, in her tiny cottage, in the woods, with her cat.

She was strange. The boy knew that. Everyone said she was strange. They said she was probably a witch who could cast spells and make things happen. Things that were beyond the understanding of common folk. Things that were magical. But he would visit and listen to her talk. He liked the way she talked and the things she would tell him. She said he was special because he wasn’t afraid to listen. She said that he listened because he possessed a wisdom not held by many. This would grow as the years go by, she said. In time, he would come to an understanding of it and he would have to choose what path he would take, she said.

Now, on a summer morning, they sit.

“This world aches with problems,” she says, stroking her cat, as it makes itself comfortable on her lap. “It groans beneath the weight of it all. Folk crave magical solutions, yet they refuse to believe in magic.” She chuckles. “How do you explain that?”

He shakes his head.

“People don’t believe in the power of incantations, for example,” she goes on, “yet how do they explain the enchantment brought about by the words of a poet, for instance. How do they explain how such feelings mesmerize and leave the reader spellbound when, if only momentarily, they allow a brief glimpse into a world filled with magic? Why is it that these fleeting moments of brilliant beauty and true magic do not leave their mark?”

Her head drops to one side in a silent question.

He smiles and shrugs.

She nods. “Is it the case that in full innocence they deny magic, but are themselves truly magicians… unknowing magicians. They won’t be told, they cannot be told.” She sighed. “And they cannot listen.”

The old woman looks out through her tiny window.

“Dwell on this,” she says, “for those who maintain steadfast that magic does not exist, let them explain love!”

She grins at him. “I think I’ll sleep for a while,” she says, closing her eyes.

The cat’s purring grows louder.

He leaves, quietly.

Every visit brings something new, he ponders. Always, there are ideas that he would need to think about.

In his youth, he only knows for certain that he loves visiting the old woman, in her tiny cottage, in the woods, with her cat.

That is all he needs to know.

She had always regarded herself as a patient and considerate person.

This view of herself was held in place with only one exception; this being other people’s lateness. As far as she could tell, this peccadillo was something that could so easily be avoided on all occasions, with a minor effort with regards to forward planning. There could never be reasonable grounds for its occurrence. It was with this thought in mind that she now stood frowning at the time. Her relatively new boyfriend had agreed whole-heartedly with her unwavering opinion on the subject of such tardiness. For this reason, he had been particularly careful to allow enough time to drive the relatively short distance across town to pick her up. This, of course, would avoid the possibility of her bus turning up late. She certainly appreciated his efforts in this regard.

Meanwhile, although leaving early, his modest little town car had been struck violently at an intersection, where he had had right of way, with such force that he’d been ejected from the vehicle and had rolled to a halt in the middle of the road, unconscious.

She was beginning to feel the cold of the late afternoon wind, as she once again saw how late he was. Despite the fact that her anger was beginning to grow and burn within, she took stock. He was nice. In the few weeks that they’d been dating he was nothing but courteous. In short, she had been convinced that he’d be what you would call a good catch!

He opened his eyes slowly as he became aware of people talking and hovering over him. He could see, just beyond his stretched out arm, his mobile phone. It had obviously tumbled loose from his pocket. If he could reach it, he could send a brief text explaining. He was attempting to do this when he was lifted onto a stretcher causing the degree of pain to escalate. He passed out again.

It was a particularly horrible sense of irony that swept over her, while standing in the cold watching her regular bus come and go. He was so terribly behind time that it was going to be very difficult, if not impossible, to keep her waiting this long. However, she decided to see the whole thing out, regardless of the consequences that the incident may bring about.

In the emergency ward at the local hospital, after several urgent tests and procedures that he was only vaguely aware of had ended, he once again caught sight of his phone. It was on the bed-side table, and looked as though it was just within reach. Despite the many attached wires and tubes, it was while extending his grasp in this direction that he fell out of the bed, causing several alarms to start up simultaneously.

Later that evening she caught a bus home.

Before dawn the doctor shook his head.

Sometime later, she stood, dressed mainly in black, at the appointed spot in the cemetery, along with others. The gathering, mostly strangers, were all watching the main gate for the hearse. She was more agitated than mournful. She checked the time again.

It goes without saying, he was late.

There was one thing he knew about the two people who lived on the ground floor at number three.

They were never at home when he knocked. He tried to contact them four times over the last five days without success. He was at sixes and sevens about the parcel left at his door by mistake. His friend at number eight reckoned that nine times out of ten they don’t get home until after eleven. At this point he decided to ask around. The woman who lives above him, in apartment twelve, said they run a karaoke club. She’s been to some of their family nights, where children as young as thirteen and fourteen take the microphone and enjoy their fifteen minutes of fame. On the same floor, the man in apartment sixteen said he’d been told about them. They were a surprisingly young pair of music entrepreneurs. One was seventeen and the other was eighteen.

Up on the top floor, in apartment nineteen, there was a twenty-something woman who kept very much to herself. Apparently, she was in the music industry and said to be as odd as a twenty-one-dollar bill. However, seeing that it seemed to be something of a catch twenty-two situation, she suggested, quite sensibly, that he leave the parcel outside their door.

While speaking to her, further along the hallway, the couple from twenty-three came out. He nodded and smiled as they passed. Little did they know that he had applied for that apartment when the place was first built, but they had beaten him to it.

Pity… it was his favourite number.

He entered the foreboding building, dreading what was to come.

He stood around for a while in the foyer. He knew he needed to clear his head. The image of the girl lying in the bed was hard to shake. He been doing this for a very long time. Too long! She looked pale, but otherwise… she might have made it. Sudden full recoveries were not unheard of. She was so young, and pretty. Taking a deep breath, he nodded towards the front desk and made his way to the manager’s office.

After dropping the bombshell that left his senior speechless, then angry, he repeated his decision. This time with a somewhat apologetic tone in his voice, he said, “I…I just couldn’t do it. It didn’t seem right.”

His senior said, “Yes. That’s all very well, but it’s not our place to decide these things. You should know that; you’ve been doing the job long enough. We just follow orders.”

The subordinate shrugged.

“Are you really sure?” the manager went on.

The other pulled his hood back and nodded.

The manager shook his head. “Have you any idea just how long it’ll take to train someone up to replace you?” He picked up a large print out of the current schedule. “I can only guess how long it’s going to take to get up to speed again.”

The other said nothing.

Finally, the manager blew out air in exasperation. Still shaking his head, he said, “OK. Don’t forget to hand your scythe in at the front desk.”