Author: Alexander Fawn

He noticed that his daughter had been sitting on the lounge room floor for some time, drawing.

She was using a set of coloured crayons to cover the page of a large colouring book. He took a quick peek every time he went passed. She seemed to be completely engrossed in what she was doing. As far as he could tell, it was a complicated drawing with what might be stick figures and lots of different coloured shapes. When his curiosity had finally got the better of him he went to have a closer look.

Crouching down next to her, he stared at a mass of coloured marks. He said, “So, what have we got here, sweetheart?”

She stopped scribbling and looked up. She giggled and pointed at the picture. “Can you see you?”

He squinted at it. “No,” he said, as though he was really trying.

“That’s you and that’s mummy and that’s me.”

“And the dots?”

“They’re flowers down by the lake. You know, the one near the shops. Mummy lets me play on the swings, sometimes.”

“Oh! I see them now. I don’t know what those are,” he said pointing to a cluster of tiny shapes.

“Ducks, and some other birds that I don’t know about.”

“And these?” He pointed at several brown boxes.

“They are the seats for people to sit on.” She poked at the paper. “See that there? That’s Tiddles, the cat from a cross the road.”

Pulling a funny face, he said, “Wow! How did it get there?”

She giggled again. “She walked, silly.”

As he stood up, he nodded sagely and said, “I think that’s a wonderful picture, honey.”

“Thanks,” she said, and picked up a crayon.

Minutes later, in the kitchen, he was telling his wife about the conversation.

“I know,” she said, “I could hear you.”

He looked really impressed. “I can tell you one thing, the kid’s got vision…”

The man in the bed at the end of the ward pressed the call button again.

The ward was full and the nurses were all busy. The long-term patient in room 17B waited for a response to his call. He didn’t expect to receive any special treatment, but that was the fourth time he had called, all with no response. It had been going on for days. He didn’t know who was in charge out there, but he had his suspicions. Meanwhile, one of the young nurses decided to have a word with the charge nurse about him at the first opportunity.

“He hasn’t had any visitors for weeks,” she began. “He seems to be perfectly articulate. I’m sure he feels isolated and alone in there.”

The charge nurse nodded.

“He certainly rings the call bell a lot,” the nurse added.

The charge nurse, knowing what a demanding and spiteful old misery the man actually was, shook her head. “You’re right; he’s not a happy case, I’m afraid.”

She didn’t care to explain that it would be best for everybody if her husband was best left with his own miserable company…

The man was what you’d call a political consultant.

He was sitting at his desk at the back of the house, taking one last look at the photographs. Although primarily involved in giving advice regarding the running of political campaigns, his speciality was opposition research. Quite apart from being very good at it, he always derived a great deal of pleasure from stitching people up. This had been a magnificent victory for his client and a lucrative one for himself. He checked the time. His visitor would arrive soon. Minutes later the front doorbell chimed. He let the man in, while sporting a beaming smile. They went through to the consultant’s room and sat across the desk from one another.

The consultant said, “You’ve heard, I take it?”

“I certainly have, papers and TV are full of it. It went exactly the way you said it would. Everyone else is in a state of shock.”

The consultant looked down at the half-dozen prints lying on his desk, face down between them.

His visitor said, “How’d you pull it off, that’s what I want to know?”

“Leverage.”

“How’s that?”

“Leverage. It’s what it’s all about, you know.”

His visitor started to say, “I’m not sure I….”

The consultant cut him off. “It’s incredibly simple really. It’s an action brought about when a rigid bar or pole is used to pivot at point A, to move a given object at point B, while applying pressure or force at point C.” While saying this he drew an imaginary illustration in the air with his finger. “Didn’t someone say, give me a lever long enough and a fulcrum on which to place it, and I shall move the world?”

“Archimedes.”

“That’s him!”

The other repeated, “I just don’t believe it. I mean, how does one really swing an election?”

The other looked lovingly at his photographs as he slid them back into the envelope. “Wonderful pictures! Blew them up, you know. Amazing what detail you can see when you blow them up. Did it here on my own equipment, of course. Nobody sees these. This afternoon they go into hiding.” He sealed the A4 envelope and held it to his chest.

Realising what the other had done, the visitor said, “You’ll find some clever secret place for them, I suppose.”

“Oh! Yes, I’ll bury them, you can be sure of that.”

His visitor looked worried. “Not at all sure why you are telling me all this.”

“Ah! I always saw you as an astute fellow; astute but not big on the prediction of human behaviour in your fellow man.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s about complicity, isn’t it?”

The other looked shocked. “Complicity?”

“Yes, you know the sort of thing; in collusion with, conniving in some scheme or other. In a case like this, he tapped the envelope, who can say how extensive the penalties could become. It’s not a gamble I’d like to take.” He opened a drawer, dropped the envelope in and pulled out a form. The application was fully made out. He pushed it across the desk. “It only requires a signature,” he said, with a smile.

The other picked it up. “What’s this?”

“Oh! A minor matter. For some reason, the golf club is being unreasonable about giving me membership. Something about a long waiting list, but you being the treasurer, well, your sponsorship should fix it, don’t you think?”

After thinking about it for a moment, his visitor took a pen from his pocket. “Leverage,” he mumbled under his breath, as he signed.

He only really wanted a moment.

If only he had a moment. He thought about all the things he could do, if he had a moment. Just a brief moment. If he could have that single moment, he could stand for that moment with his eyes closed and remember and hear the sound of water as it laps against his neighbour’s boat, as they fish. He could feel the swing beneath him, as it moves him to and fro, in the park he played in as a child, taste the rhubarb tart his granny serves every time he visits with his parents, see the carpet of bluebells that wound its way beneath the trees where he walked as a boy, smell the aroma as it spills out into the street while coffee beans are ground in the shop he used to pass, hear his mother’s voice calling him to tea.

If he had such a moment as this, he could watch the gulls as they circle out over the sea at summer camp, feel the cool evening breeze as it sweeps through the garden in summer, taste the salt water, while bobbing in the sea, see the orange sky of sunset, smell the smoky wind from his neighbour’s fire, feel the fur of his cat rubbing against his bare skin, hear the crackle of lightning while he lays in his bed, taste the homemade minestrone soup his auntie makes, see the crystals forming on his bedroom window, smell the roses in his friend’s garden, feel the gentle sway of his friend’s hammock, he could hear the sound of the train’s wheels as he peers out of the window, he could look on as the dolphins jump and play in the lagoon… how they love to play.

If only he had a moment.

Through the great stretch of time from atoms to life;

Measurements made for the control,

For the bringing about of required order.

Each elementary particle given assembly,

Given shape, given meaning.

–

As time washes up against some unknown shore.

All within the strata of boundless space.

Elements take on the sequences and patterns of atomic structures.

–

Matter being formed in so many ways.

Beyond the substance and material of it all,

Running through never-ending dimensions,

Atoms colliding and massing,

Twirling in their appointed designs.

–

Such things invisibly coming together.

A regimentation of electrons,

Both lost and found,

Bonding and moving away,

Attaching and letting loose,

Each to either clasp or repel.

–

What detours did these atoms take,

From the sub-atomic, building through to the cosmos,

Moving as they did, towards life?

Talks had broken down, again.

It had been building up for some time and it was obvious that something had to give. There was a great deal of animosity on both sides. This particular battle had been played out before with neither party willing to give an inch. There was a sense of deliberate warmongering on both sides. Why this situation was destined to come to a head time and time again was a complete mystery. The idea of sitting down at a peace table never seemed to be an option. The whole situation was, once again, about to get really ugly.

Finally, out comes the coin.

Let’s face it, somebody has to do the washing up!

The two scientists were running even more tests.

The voles that were being studied were of the Microtus Fortis type, commonly known as the Reed Vole. Not much research had been carried out on these cute little rodents. The director of the institute had ordered a more thorough study of the creatures with emphasis being placed on their cognitive abilities. Although the research was being carried out to prove that these tiny creatures had no more native intelligence than any other similar rodent, they were deliberately sourced from Guatemala. It was in this part of the world that the legends have been rife for centuries that the animals had mystic powers. Quite naturally, the two men tasked with carrying out the prescribed experiments were scientists. They based their work on science as opposed to myth. Both were experienced mammologists, specialising in mammals.

Their best subject was a male. He certainly performed much better than the others when they were all put through the same testing regime. He was a large, particularly stocky creature with rather smaller ears than most, with cute little orange teeth and a thick fur coat of a striking mix of brown and grey. As small dumb animals go, he was really quite personable. Although he had excelled in all test scores overall, these were by no means consistent. It was as though there were times when he just couldn’t be bothered. The testing being carried out for cognitive behaviour was only very basic. While the object of any such programme was, as always, to measure the subject’s ability to think, know, remember, judge and problem-solve, the simple tests being carried out by the two researchers were all based on what could be reasonably expected from a vole.

The exceptionally high scores being attained by Rodney, their name for him, when he was observed to be making some sort of effort were definitely well outside of the norm. The fact that he seemed to display what looked like some kind of personality was reflected in the fact that they had quite spontaneously given him a name.

Completely out of the blue, one said, “Do you ever get the feeling that Rodney is watching us?”

The other was taken by surprise by the question, but thought about it for a moment. “Well, yes, I suppose so,” he said. “He does seem to be much more interested in us and what we are doing, compared with any of the others.”

“Nothing more than just interested, you think?”

“How do you mean?”

“Oh! I don’t know; maybe I’m imagining it, but I get the feeling that he’s actually carefully observing, as opposed to just watching.”

The other shook his head with a grin. “Ooh! Steady on. This is a vole we’re dealing with here. It’s just a vole.”

The first man sighed. “Yes. You’re probably right. Maybe I should take more regular breaks?”

The other rolled his shoulders. “It probably wouldn’t do either of us any harm to make sure that we go off and stretch our legs from time to time, after all we’ve been doing this nonstop for a number of days.” He patted his colleague on the arm. “In fact, let’s go and get hot drinks and sit it out for a few minutes.”

After the other nodded his agreement, he peered into Rodney’s cage and said, “I’m sure you wouldn’t mind a short break either, little guy.”

Rodney watched them go.

He thinks, I hope I didn’t overdo it with those high scores… I only want to keep them interested. He rolls over in his comfy bed of straw. The longer I can keep this research project going, the better. I have everything a guy could want here; accommodation, food, nice people, a bit dumb, but nice. One of them said my coat was attractive the other day. Maybe one of them will keep me as a pet? Let’s face it, anything to avoid going back to that stinking marshland hole in Guatemala!

They each sat analysing.

The conversation that broke the silence, went something like…

First – “It’s interesting, don’t you think?”

Second – “What?”

First – “That they seem to have so many Gods!”

Second – “Well… yes.”

First – “I suppose it’s some sort of holy compartmentalising. A god for this, a God for that; Hindus for instance.”

Second – “Yes, but more generally, there is a great deal of division.”

First – “They have had many wars.”

Second – “Some of them still raging, I see.”

First – “Right. Several land masses separated by oceans. Inevitable that differences would not always be understood, or even fully known about or seen for what they are, I suppose.”

Second – “Yes. Looking at their history, each developing from scratch. No means of standardisation.”

First – “True. Different languages, with various forms of government, different currencies. Each with their own levels of progress; their individual stages of civilisation.”

Second – “The more you look, the more you see; in far greater detail, I mean.”

First – “Their skin colour, customs and lifestyles, you mean?”

Second – “Yes, but beyond that. No standardisation for the preparation of food, or the side of the road they use when they travel, or the colour coding for their wiring systems. The closer you look, the sheer diversity of it is remarkable.”

First – “We are looking at a very early stage of civilisation.”

Second – “Agreed.”

First – “Sufficiently reported, would you say?”

Second – Sufficient.”

One of several slender digits gently touched a single facet of the star drive crystal causing a soft hum throughout the craft.

First – “Nothing much of interest here. Let’s move on.”

The ship slipped away into the blackness.

The electrician had finished his work and was packing up.

The lady of the house had mentioned that her husband, tucked away at the back of the house, was a writer. She mentioned, in a throw away manner, that he posted his stories on a blog. “Feel free to pop your head in,” she had said. When he was ready to leave, although he knew the man at the back was a private individual, he thought he would take up the suggestion and say hello, if only to be polite. He wandered up the hall and found the door partly open.

As he stepped in, he looked around at a nicely appointed study. The husband, who’d been tapping away on a laptop, looked up. With unfocused eyes, he said, “All done?”

The man nodded. Feeling awkward, and with an embarrassed smile, he blurted out, “Well, what’s this all about then?”

The husband raised his eyebrows. “Ah! Well, I’m glad you asked. Getting to the nub of it, my short stories are compressed pieces of prose fiction, with each one dealing briefly with a slice of life. In all cases, they are designed to be read in a single sitting. They give a fleeting glimpse into the worlds of others. In the main, they are created with the aim of enabling the reader to focus momentarily on some incident or event that is, in itself, self-contained. They are typically written using between one-hundred and three-hundred words. The intention here being to quickly evoke within the reader a corresponding sense of mood. The standalone nature of the piece is intended to be a match with the nature of the reading of it.”

The man just stood for a while, looking perplexed.

The writer said, “I scribble.”

He stood looking at the painting.

It was a perfect example of modern expressionism. He knew that he was looking at so much more than just a painting. It could be seen that the heart and soul behind the hand that held the brush was being captured in these strokes, these moments of pure, unadulterated expressionism. Here and there he saw a deliberate splash of vibrant colour. He felt that the structure of the piece gave the viewer a sense of being granted permission to glimpse the random foundation on which it was built. He considered the fact that each prominent form was in perfect balance with its surroundings, and that the choice of colours were deliberately placed to catch the eye. He marvelled at the deliberate juxtaposition of brush strokes. He considered the fact that there was a brave projection of both unrestrained proportion and holistic composition, and beneath it all, a sense of experimentation.

He considered it to be a true masterpiece.

I know she’s only five, he thought, and the fact that she’s my daughter has a lot to do with it… but a masterpiece is still a masterpiece, right?