Author: Alexander Fawn

He simply loved working with wood.

He often found that he had difficulty describing the sheer joy he experienced when working with wood. He would spend hours in his well-appointed workshop out the back. When it came to top quality carpentry tools it had to be a tradesman’s utopia. Whatever he was making, he delighted in the beauty of the grain, with its never-ending variety of patterns, the streaks and the swirls of darker veins that ran through each piece of timber and how this changed with every cut of his saw or slice of his chisel. He would often be completely mesmerised by the way that shavings peeled away beneath his chisel.

He loved the way sawdust would accumulate across his bench. He would sweep it up carefully each time and keep it in tiny jars. Each one having its own quality and colour from each of his woodwork projects. He adored the way the aroma of it all filled his nostrils. He would often become quite heady with it.

Most important of all… the fact that he could never make a decent job of anything he made, never bothered him… not once.

He was completely engrossed in the short story he was reading.
The preface to the story had explained that the writer had been high on some drug or other when he wrote it. The story involved a young man staggering along a city street late one night looking for a taxi. It described how the writer had based the idea on a time when he was high on some drug or other when on holiday in Ibiza, a city known for its vibrant nightlife, a popular destination for partygoers from all corners of the globe and often referred to as the party island. It happened at a time when he had stumbled out of a night club, being high on some drug or other, and found a man wandering around in a haze, apparently high on some drug or other, trying to find a taxi.

Apparently, at the time of the incident, despite being high on some drug or other, he had returned to his hotel to write a story based on the event.
Reading this story with great interest, despite himself being quite high on some drug or other, he found it engrossing.

He’d been working on the project for several years and it was finally ready for a test run.

He wanted to share the moment with his friend from the inventors club, who knew what he’d been working on and had come up with a number of ideas and suggestions throughout its development. This was his alpha version. The software program he built would allow access to all worldwide financial systems. These could be displayed simultaneously while using inbuilt binary analysis subsystems that enabled a user to receive instant graphs that compare international stock exchange data. He had included a basic glossary so that many of the program’s features could be activated by using voice control. Two special voice command features were included, known only to him. They were ‘H7Q’ and ‘H7Q4’. The first voice command was what he used to start the program, much like a password. The second would only be used as an emergency shutdown.

This counter command was incorporated should anything go wrong. It would instantly shut down the program, ensuring that no other alterations could be made before any bugs in the coding were fixed. It would shut down for twenty four hours while problems were being resolved. A problem may take many hours to fix. The whole thing contained a vast number of lines of code; the final number to be determined when he was confident that every aspect of the program was working and no further bug fixes were needed. Over time, several sections had been run individually to check on their performance, but tonight would be the first time the entire program would be activated, and he wanted to share the moment with his friend.

Although his fellow inventor was mainly involved in things mechanical, he had made some useful suggestions about the use of graphics for the main menu screens. Besides, this would be a very special moment and he was really excited that they were going to witness it together.

At last, they were standing side by side, in front of the system’s large screen.

Doing his best to remain calm and professional, he said to his friend, “Are you ready?”

The other nodded enthusiastically.

He switched the microphone on and said, “H-7-Q.” At this, the screen lit up with a very impressive opening page.

His friend was impressed and while staring approvingly at the screen, asked almost absentmindedly, “What was the H7Q for?”

He was finding the narrow lanes difficult to navigate.

Junctions kept appearing with no indication as to which way to go or which way was out. He wanted to get out, that was for sure. It gradually dawned on him that it was a maze. Yes, that’s why it was so difficult. He was in a maze! He looked up, as though looking up into the sky would help! Nevertheless, after staring into space for a few moments, he saw something. Great moving shapes became visible. Then there was recognition; followed by confusion, followed by annoyance. Two large eyes were looking back. In that moment, some strange element of communication took place.

These humans, he thought, they’re are supposed to be so much smarter than us, but they certainly lack the most common social graces. How hard would it be for him, having a bird’s-eye view as it were, to help me out of here? These people are positively unhelpful!

The old man was sitting on the front porch smoking his pipe when the boy came by.

Always feeling he could rely on his grandfather to listen to his troubles, he sat down and explained how he had been playing in the park, kicking his ball around with his mates. The boy got teary when he explained that he left it under one of the park seats while the three of them went off tree-climbing for a while. When they returned, it was gone!

“Probably pinched, but we didn’t see anybody,” the boy said, looking up at his grandfather with wet eyes.

“Ah! Well, sorry to hear that son,” he said, patting the boy on his knee.

“It was my favourite ball; cost heaps.”

The old man sighed. “Never mind; there’ll be others.” He sat puffing on his pipe for a while. “There are all kinds of losses, you know. Why! In this street alone, I could give you examples”. He fell silent while he knocked out his pipe. “Yes, four cases come to mind.”

The boy sat back ready to listen. He enjoyed the old man’s stories.

“It happened to that nice young woman up there at twenty-eight. She’d had a visit from her sister and her husband. After tea they said how much they enjoyed her casserole. She was flattered and said they were welcome to take what was left over and they could enjoy it all over again. When the time came for them to leave, the woman said that the dish had cooled and why not take it as it is and return the dish next time.” He shook his head. “It was a beautiful looking pot with a flower design on the sides and on the lid. It was a bit of an heirloom apparently, passed down a couple of generations. She knew how precious it was. Anyway, that’s what they did.” He shook his head again. “Sadly, on their way home they had an accident; a minor one at first. They ran into the back of another vehicle and when they got out he engine caught fire. They stood on the side of the road watching when the tank went up. In no time at all, the thing was a blazing inferno!”

“Wow! Said the boy.

“Wow indeed! You see how these things can happen? She lost her dish.”

After a brief pause, he went on. “Then there was the retired guy at number fourteen, who spent so much of his time writing short stories, then taking them to the local pub and reading them to his fans. It was just a small group of half-a-dozen people who drank there regularly. Once a week they’d sit in the corner while he read to them. Anyway, he’d been ill for a long time, then suddenly it got worse. He was told that he didn’t have long to live. Naturally, his fans said how sad they were when their meetings stopped. Then, right out of the blue, he got better! The funny thing was, after letting people know the good news of his recovery and how they could continue with their evenings, he turned up at the appointed time to find that none of them were there! They had all started drinking somewhere else. He couldn’t understand why.” He nodded at the boy. “There you are, you see. He lost his audience.”

He scratched his head and went on. “I don’t know whether you know this, but the man at number seventeen is a heavy drinker.

The boy shook his head.

“No, perhaps you wouldn’t. Anyway, he got so drunk that one evening he staggered into the local library. People that had been sitting quietly reading looked up with a start when he banged the door open. He went up to the girl at the enquiry desk and ordered a gin and tonic. When she refused to take his order he started yelling at her, demanding she get him a drink. She tried to explain where he was, but he obviously didn’t understand and became really aggressive. It took two of them, the manager and one of the men that had been browsing books, to throw him out!” The old man snorted. “I hear he went back a couple of days later to apologise, but they didn’t want to know. He lost his library membership.”

After shaking his head slowly, he looked up. “Probably the worst and most tragic was the case of the old lady over there, at number four. Sad case. With her husband gone, and her forty-something year old son, as mad as a March hare still living at home. This son of hers had been getting really frustrated with a neighbour’s dog. It kept coming into the front garden, braking plants and digging holes. It turns out that she was out late one afternoon when the nice little delivery boy came delivering the local paper. It was getting dark and he was half way up the garden path when the son grabbed the shotgun and opened the front window. The woman arrived home only minutes later to find her son standing over the body.”

The old man sniffed.

“She had lost her favourite delivery boy.”

The youngster wriggled around on the seat. He looked up wide eyed at the old storyteller.

“Is any of that true Grandpa?”

“Uh? Well, whether it is or it isn’t, make the most of it. They tell me I’m no longer able to look after myself. They’re putting me in a home.”

He sniffed again.

“They say I’m losing my marbles!”

The two men sat in silence.

Outside, an early evening storm seemed to be brewing. Inside, the father thought about what his son had said. He thought about the consequences that may well follow, if any.

A distant, gentle roll of thunder penetrated the silence of the room.

The son also sat thinking. He couldn’t think of anything meaningful that he could add. He turned to look at the darkening window.

A light rain was now splashing against the glass.

The father slowly put down the newspaper he’d been reading.

Thunder sounded again, this time with a boom.

The son watched, as his father removed his glasses, noting not for the first time how carefully he placed them down. In his eyes, his father had always been a wise and prudent man. He considered the differences between them. There seemed to be a wide gap, something that went beyond the obvious differences in their age.

The rain began pelting against the window now and the occasional flash of lightening lit the back garden.

The father went to the window and looked out for a while. It was obvious that a summing up of what he’d been told was running through his head.

Thunder clapped loudly somewhere overhead and the relentless rain still pounded the side of the house.

After peering up at the sky, the father closed the curtains. He gave a barely audible groan as he sat back down.

Another clap of thunder.

The son leant forward slightly, as if there was something he wanted to add, but instead, he lowered his head with a sigh.

As time passed, the rain began to ease and the sound of the storm fell away.

The father picked up his glasses and his newspaper. He sat regarding his son for a few long seconds before returning to his reading.

The rain had stopped and only distant rumblings could be heard.

The son sunk further back into his chair. He watched his father for a while. It was as though they had come to some tacit agreement that there was nothing more to say.

Soft rumblings told him that the storm had nearly passed.

He stood back from the crowd, barely able to hear the priest.

It was fine weather for a funeral. He didn’t want to get too close. The body was being lowered, still riddled with the undetected poison that brought it there. Not that it mattered, when it’s six feet under, its hardly relevant. It was nice to observe the people who turned out. He watched his family and friends drop flowers and messages onto the coffin as it disappeared. He saw so many sad faces. It was consoling to know that they really cared.

Then he spotted her.

He could hardly believe it. “After what she did, she has the audacity to actually come and watch me being buried,” he thought.

As a vapourish spirit, he floated to her side, and went… “Boo!”

The small coastal town hit paydirt when the monorail was installed.

In fact, the entire region prospered in terms of tourist trade. All thanks to the clever people at the local robotics institute coming up with the design and the town council for giving it the green light. The entire operating system was virtually maintenance free. Time alone would tell if the installation would cause the local economy to go gangbusters, and it did. The system, being both solar powered and fully automated, changed the lives of so many in the tiny community.

The idea was simple enough. Three carriages, each with seating for six. This often meant a couple of families in each. The circuit took just under five minutes. The one-stop platform, with its automated doors and voice announcements, saw constant crowds queuing throughout its operating hours, six days a week. The children loved it. Without doubt, the main drawcard… it was free!

Of course, this was all before the world’s major powers pressed a few buttons and started the final global conflict. The end result of this, no more passengers.

The monorail will continue its scheduled circuits, just as long as the sun keeps shining…

Because he was a hermit, the beginning and the truth of it would never be known.

His wisdom and knowledge were quite remarkable. Within the solitude of the surrounding woodlands he had looked ahead and wondered how he would cope with the forthcoming personality transition. In practical terms he had put money aside for the day. He had a small backpack and was dressed in reasonable, unremarkable attire. So, at the appointed time he slowly walked through and out of the forest and entered the village, where he caught a bus. At the station he boarded a train and arriving at the airport he bought a ticket and waited for the first available flight. After landing at the international airport in Kathmandu he trekked west for the best part of three hours until he reached the ancient religious complex at the top of a hill where he found and entered the temple.

After sitting in meditation for a while he came out to sit beneath the night sky. Here he sat in silence just long enough for him to begin to rise up gently from the ground. He kept floating higher and higher. Up he went into the night sky. He flew up amid and beyond the sparkling stars. He passed the planets and travelled beyond. Leaving the solar system behind, he went among the stars. He skirted moons and asteroids and glided passed other galaxies. Further and further he went, until he reached the very end of the known universe and the nexus with the other half of the dual universe.

Here, he paused briefly at the membrane, that which separated one from the other, the second universe… just enough time for him to pass through into the unknown. There to begin another journey.

No human from planet Earth had ever crossed over before.

Once more, he wondered about his imminent personality transition from hermit to celebrity.

He was on his way home in the late afternoon, driving slowly through a raging storm.

He was listening to severe weather reports on his radio. Rain was lashing his windscreen and his wipers were on the fastest setting. From time to time heavy winds were buffeting the side of his car. Up ahead he could see people cowering for shelter at a bus stop. He had heard on the radio that many bus services were not running owing to breakdowns and bad weather. As he drew closer he could make out two men and a woman. He recognised his neighbour, who he knows doesn’t own a mobile phone, but who had recently stopped, coming to his rescue, when his own car broke down. He didn’t recognise the other two.

He pulled up to them as close as possible and wound his window down partway. They could all see that his sports car had only one passenger seat. Shouting back and forth, it was established that the other man was the owner of the coffee house in town who had come out without his wallet or his phone. The woman was elderly and was looking poorly. They explained that she had been taken sick while waiting for the bus and was in urgent need of an ambulance. Knowing that he could only take one, he knew he was in a moral dilemma and his choice was clear. First take the old lady to hospital and return for his neighbour, who he would take home, then he could return for the stranger and take him to wherever he needed to get to.

Despite the urgency of the situation, he paused for a few beats to think again. His recent reading of Edward de Bono’s book on lateral thinking came to mind. He yelled out his plan to have his neighbour drive the woman to hospital and then return his car home, while he would call and wait for a taxi with the other man. They all nodded.

As they watched the car pull away, speaking loudly against the noisy conditions, the stranger explained that he hadn’t wanted to drive in the bad weather. He said he’d been on his way to visit his daughter, who was expecting her first baby in a week or two. He explained where that was and asked if that was OK.

The other smiled and nodded.

The stranger called out, “Drop me there and I’ll serve you a free coffee whenever you visit my café.”

“Do you do cappuccinos?”

“I do.”

He took out his phone to call for a taxi and shouted, “You’re on!”