Author: Alexander Fawn

He had taken a short drive to his favourite stretch of the river for lunch.

He did this on occasion. It was a pleasant, grassy spot where it was peaceful enough to allow a person to hear the water dipping and churning its way through the narrow channel. It was just a five minute trip away from the halls of academia, where he lectured in philosophy at the city’s main university. He was well known around the campus and although widely respected, his somewhat overbearing sense of prestige and eminence had the majority of his students maintain a respectable distance. ‘Hail fellow, well met’, he wasn’t. This place was always quiet, and there was rarely anyone to hail.

He opened the plastic container and took out a sandwich that had been prepared by his wife that morning. As he began to eat, he considered the weather, the scenery and the food to be most propitious. It was his calling that had him think that way.

Meanwhile, the red fire ant was particularly stealthy in the way it ascended the inside of the scholar’s trouser leg. Eventually, once happy that it had found a spot where the skin was found to be at its most inviting, it bit down hard.

The pain struck like a lightning bolt!

He jumped up smacking his rear. He was doing this partly as an attempt to ease the pain and partly to ensure that whatever insect had brought the event about was dispatched to meet its maker. The location of the wound was his left buttock. His sandwiches were now scattered in front of him, no longer appetizing or edible. After dropping the spoiled food into a bin, he made his way back to his car.

As he went, he pondered the event. Intellectually, he considered that some universal imbalance had been at play. All in all, he was aware of the fact that the incident had played heavily upon his intellectual sensibilities.

For him it seemed to be totally unreasonable that such a tiny insect had been in a position to know exactly what was about to happen, before he did!

The craft hovered some sixty kilometres above the planet, just a little beyond the atmosphere.

They had travelled far and wide on their quest for the precious substance. Their needs for this would be hard to explain to any life forms outside of the GN-z11 galaxy, some thirteen and a half billion light-years from their present location. Their home planet’s survival was entirely dependent on the success or failure of their mission. The complex substance they search for is made up mainly of the two ions, chloride and sodium, with far smaller amounts of sulphate and magnesium. Should they find this highly prized commodity, their ship is armed with a quelling device that can be used to subdue whatever species that inhabits the planet in question.

Now, it just so happens, as unlikely as it may sound, this alien species had mastered the technology required to build a spacecraft large enough to contain a storage capacity of liquid comparable in volume to that of a small planet, along with the sophisticated technology to project sonic waves capable of subduing life forms. However, far more unlikely is the fact that they are incredibly incompetent when it comes to simple electrical devices. For example, the method used to activate the sonic wave projector is nothing more than a crudely made tin box with two wires coming out at the side and a small red button on top.

This state of affairs is brought into sharp relief when considering the fact that their method of mass mind control is accomplished by sending out powerful electronic-protoplasm, that has the attributes to not only sense living matter, but to emit stimuli. This is applied by firing off an ongoing ripple of vast, far-reaching waves of super-sensory vibrations, transmitted through the atmosphere that surrounds any given planet. This promotes a feeling of joyous rapture in the living forms receiving it, lulling them into a state of noctambulatery stupefaction.

If these strange creatures were capable of feeling the human emotion of excitement, they would be jumping for joy over their discovery. The vast quantity of the greatly needed substance being openly available on the planet being scanned was a find far greater than they had dared to imagine and all on one world. Finally, their calculations for the operation of piping literally all of the liquid, known to those below as seawater, onto the ship, were completed and the red button was about to be pushed. With some sort of fanfare that those below were simply not capable of comprehending, pushed it was.

Nothing happened…

It took several long, local days for the visitors to figure out they had a blown fuse on their hands. With the back of the control box opened and the dead item removed, it was used to find a match. After a great deal of rummaging around in the ship’s storage section, it was discovered that they didn’t have a spare.

If any Earthling was capable of understanding what was going on sixty kilometres up, they would have let out a deep breath, knowing that the removal of the planet’s oceans was not going to happen anytime soon.

As for those on board the alien craft with their dead fuse, regardless of the fact that their sophisticated mode of transport was capable of speeds a touch over seven times the speed of light, it was still an awfully long way to go back for a replacement…

The structure suddenly appeared early one morning.

It looked like a dome climber, the sort of thing you see in kids’ playgrounds. But it wasn’t a dome climber for several reasons. One being that these things are built in an allocated spot within the relatively safe confines of a children’s’ playground and not in the carpark at the back of a chemist’s shop. Another being that they are made of metal and not wood, more precisely, branches, tree branches. Also, whereas this structure has most of it feet embedded in the ground, some have sharp points that hover above the ground. Its uniqueness is further emphasised by the fact that several of these tips appear to be bloodstained. A feature being the main topic of conversation among the small crowd of locals that had gathered around it since the word got out that it had mysteriously appeared.

The chatter taking place was subdued, in most cases cautious murmurings.

“What is it?”

“No idea.”

“Don’t like the looks of those spear tips.”

“Is it blood?”

“I think so.”

“Does anybody know how it got here?”

“Not sure, but that woman over there seems to know something.”

“Like what?”

“Dunno, but she referred to it as a ‘horror bubble’.”

“A what?”

“A horror bubble.”

“Now, do you see what I mean?”

“Eh?”

“You know, what I was saying the other day.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about how things get named, without giving it proper thought. Once the name gets around, it sticks and you can’t change it.”

“Ah! Yes, I do seem to recall you saying something about…”

“Of course! This is a really good example of something being misnamed!”

“I suppose it is.”

“It is. I mean, bubble! What kind of nonsense is that? A bubble, to be a bubble, has to be a sphere for starters.”

“Well, yes, I suppose you’re right.”

“Who said it?”

“What?”

“Who said it? Who called it a horror bubble?”

“The woman over there, wearing a red hat.”

“I’m not surprised. Doesn’t she tell fortunes or something?”

“Not sure.”

“There you are, you see? Classic, I tell you. It’s all about misdirections.”

“Look, shouldn’t we report it or something?”

“Nah. It’ll shrivel up and disappear when the sun’s been on it a while.”

“It will?”

“Yep, seen it before.”

“You have?”

“I have.”

“OK then. What are they called?”

“If you want us to stay friends, don’t ask…”

The young clerk sat looking bewildered at the handwritten note.

It read; Owing to a farrago of spatchcocks, I had no time for omphaloskepsis. It would be a case of lucubration in my phrontistery, in what would probably be a sisyphean of sorting through the imbroglio to identify the delenda.

It had been left by the proof-reader the day before, along with a great many heavily edited pages. It was evident that there had been no attempt to follow up on any of the insertions, corrections, or relocation of paragraphs or sentences, or any of the multitude of alterations suggested by the editor. The most notable aspect of the material was the fact that so much of the proposed text had been struck through with a red pen. He rightly considered it would be best to wait until the manager came in, but meanwhile he would read it through several times. Surely, he thought, this would have to help! It didn’t.

On arrival, the manager of the publishing company was presented with the problem. He looked through the marked up copy before reading the note. He looked up and smiled at the clerk. “Ah! Yes, I see he didn’t have time.”

The clerk looked no less perplexed.

“Let me explain,” said the manager, reading as he went. “Owing to a farrago, that being a disordered mixture, of spatchcocks, meaning hurriedly inserted text, I had no time for omphaloskepsis, or navel-gazing. It would be a case of lucubration, meaning studying into the night, in my phrontistery, his place of study, in what would probably be a sisyphean, a futile activity, of sorting through the imbroglio, a confused mess, to identify the delenda, those things that needed to be deleted.”

He looked at his young employee and smiled encouragingly.

“He tends to talk like that, but as I said, he didn’t have time.”

The shadowy figure standing at the bottom of the bed was whispering softly.

The sleeper was now awake, woken by hearing his name. His mouth was dry and his eyes stung. He lifted his head and peered around in the near blackness of the bedroom. The spectre was barely visible, but it was there. The peculiar muttering continued. The voice was saying, “The line between life and death is always there. Never more than a hair’s breadth between. A lost moment, a sudden decision, a chance encounter. It is a scarcely observable membrane that separates the two. There are so many of these. Like digging into an underground cable, falling down an abandoned mineshaft, standing too close to a collapsing wall, clearing a machinery jam with the power on, walking too close to a roof’s edge. Such a brief moment. A split second’s decision or indecision. Fiddling with the radio tuner while driving, swimming too far out to make it back to land, travelling too fast along a slippery lane, allowing a frayed electrical cable to come into contact with water.”

The words paused for a moment. In the silence, the man laid trembling.

Then, after a sigh, it went on. “So many moments; there is smoking near a gas leak, taking a shortcut through a construction site, stepping out into traffic, being lost in a desert with no water, standing too close to someone infected with a lethal virus, taking pills without checking the label, losing your balance at the top of a ladder, falling through a damaged roof, jamming a foot while crossing railway lines, getting clothing caught in rotating machinery, falling while not wearing protective safety clothing, passing beneath falling masonry, wearing inappropriate shoes on slippery surfaces, tripping over unseen obstacles, descending a lengthy flight of stairs with no handrail, running through a dimly lit area, losing your footing on a mountain track, and of course, there is always allowing a frayed electrical cable to connect with water. Did I mention that? These really are endless, you know.” The apparition chuckled. The man heard the flap of a cloak and the sound of a bony finger running along the edge of a blade.

Still shaking, the man rolled over; he was now extremely parched. He reached for the water, then stopped… In the dark, he fumbled with the bedside drawer and took out a torch. He switched it on and scanned the end of the bed. Nothing. He swung the torch around and saw that his water glass lay on its side. He rolled out of bed and switched the light on. He stood quivering, taking in the sight of his glass laying in the tray that had filled with water. Moving closer he saw the frayed cord from the clock laying in the tray. He pulled the plug from the power point and stood shuddering, while he drank what little there was left in the tumbler.

The voice came once more.

“Be thankful, that I like to cheat sometimes… between visits.”

He was sitting in a quiet reading area of the school library when he saw her approach.

He could see she had something on her mind. He reflected on the fact that she always seemed to have something on her mind. That was just the way she was. Some of his fellow class mates regarded her as a ‘live wire’, while others only saw a ‘busy body’. He had never made up his own mind, but felt there was no real harm in her. He watched as she wormed her way between tables to join him, obviously bursting with something. She quietly pulled out a chair and sat down in front of him.

Looking around, she whispered, “What I’m about to tell you is a secret and you must swear that you won’t tell anybody.”

He put his book down and studied her for several long moments.

Feeling slightly embarrassed by his silence, she went on, “You understand don’t you, you can’t pass this on? I mean, there’s no way you can tell anybody.”

He sighed. “Sorry, can’t help you there.”

“What do you mean?”

“Can’t help you,” he repeated, “I don’t do secrets.”

She giggled softly. “Oh! Come on! Everybody does secrets.”

“Maybe most do, but I don’t.” He held his palms up to her in a gesture of submission. “Never have,” he said with complete sincerity.

Feeling deflated she slumped back and contemplated what she was hearing. “I don’t see how that is possible,” she said, frowning.

“I can assure you it is. I’m living proof, if you like.” He smiled and picked up his book.

“No wait!” she blurted. “I mean, someone could tell you one, a secret I mean, but without you knowing at the time that it actually was a secret.” She grinned. “You have to admit that.”

“Yes. You’re quite right about that, of course, but I have the possibility of that covered.”

“You do?”

“I do.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “And how do you do that?”

“Sorry, can’t tell you that.”

“Whyever not!”

He winked. “It’s a secret.”

They live in the best of all places.

The climate is just right, the whole year round. Their street is truly beautiful, with its row of blossoming trees and verges that are regularly trimmed. The house is grand with extensive grounds. One would think they want for nothing. In one of its many rooms, he sits in their cosy theatre watching one of his favourite movies. She floats idly on an air-filled pool lounge, sipping her favourite cocktail. Luxury cars sit in their roomy garage. She is in her thirties and positively beautiful, while he is in his thirties and positively handsome. He has several successful companies that virtually run themselves, needing only occasional trips to the city for board meetings, while she is popular among the local charity set and serves on a number of committees.

What a pity they don’t like each other.

He was standing on the platform waiting for a train.

He couldn’t help noticing the three maintenance workers in their orange, Hi-Viz jackets, on the other side of the tracks. They had erected a tall tripod over a hole in the ground. One of them stood to one side, he appeared to be the supervisor. The other two were working at the hole. One was winding a crank that lowered a cable over a pulley at the top of the tripod. The other was guiding the hook at the end of the cable into the hole. When he was sure that the correct depth was reached, he signalled the other to stop winding. He then extended his arm down and made some kind of attachment. He then signalled the other to wind the cable back up. The man, not knowing what he was watching, was fascinated nevertheless. Waiting for a train was boring at the best of times!

Once the thing attached to the cable was well clear of the hole, the winch was locked in position. The man watching could see that the object they raised was cylindrical, tapering to a smaller diameter at the top with some kind of gadgetry mounted on it. It was metal and painted black and about the size of a small LPG gas bottle. One of the men picked up a large piece of heavy board and slid it over the hole. The winch was used again to lower the object so that it came down to rest on the board. The cable was detached and the men, crouching either side of it, began doing something at its base. It seemed that they were having trouble with it.

It was at this point that one of them got up and went to a large tool bag and took something out.

The man observing all this was surprised when he saw that it was a large mallet. The worker went back to the object and knelt down next to it.

At the very moment he raised the mallet, the train pulled in, blocking the observer’s view…

Go figure!

The writer absent-mindedly fingered his whiskey glass.

Lifting it up before the window he admired the richness of its deep brown colour. He was temporarily lost in thought about the twelve years that it sat in the barrel, slowly picking up the pigmentation of the wood, darkening as it aged. He looked back at the screen, remembering that he was about to create a new story. He adjusted his keyboard and settled back in his chair. His fingertips rested lightly on the keys. He blinked a couple of times and took a deep breath. He froze, aware of the fact that his little grey cells were becoming muddled.

With the jumbling of brain cells came the loss of clarity, with the loss of clarity came the vanishing of the notion, with the loss of the notion came the fading of the idea, with the loss of the idea came the waning of the place, with the loss of place came the going of the event, with the loss of the event came the departure of the characters, with the loss of characters came the dying of the activities, with the loss of activities came the declining of the dilemma, with the loss of the dilemma came the exodus of the crisis, with the loss of the crisis came the failing of the plot, with the loss of the plot came the evaporation of the story.

With the evaporation of the story…

Well, he thought, as he tipped the remainder of the bottle into his glass, if it could slip away that easily… it probably wasn’t worth writing. Besides, the whiskey was absolutely first class!

The boy sat outside the headmaster’s office, waiting for the sign to say ‘Enter’.

He knew that it was a bold move, taking his complaint to the highest authority, but even at the age of ten he felt that the matter had to be put to rest. The sign lit up and he went in. The headmaster pointed to a chair.

“I understand you have a complaint.”

“Yes sir, Snodgrass made a completely unprovoked and violent attack on me, sir.”

“I see, and what did he do, exactly?”

“He struck me with a cudgel, sir.”

“A cudgel, you say. Well… a most unusual weapon! And where pray did this attack take place?”

“In the tap room of the Queen’s Head, sir.”

“A public house do you mean?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re saying that this boy Snodgrass attacked you with a cudgel in the tap room of a public house, is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What were you doing in such a place?”

“Drinking, sir.”

“Drinking?”

“Yes, and minding my own business, when he suddenly appeared. He struck me twice on my right shoulder, for no reason at all, sir.”

“I see, and when did this alleged assault take place?”

“On the twelfth of October 1827, sir.”

The headmaster held up a finger. “Ah! Let’s pause there for a moment, shall we? I have your records here, I believe. Yes, here we are.” He opened a folder and sat reading for a few moments.

The boy wriggled in his chair, mumbling, “It was a Friday, sir. Just a quiet drink at the end of the working week, sir.”

The headmaster’s finger was raised again. “Yes, I’m sure. That’s not what I’m looking for. Ah! Here it is.” He looked up with a smile. “Jainism… that’s it isn’t it, your religion, Jainism?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So, what we are discussing here is an unprovoked attack on your person by Snodgrass…”

The boy interrupted. “Not exactly Snodgrass, of course. He was Higgins then.”

“Yes, yes, all right. We are talking about an earlier unprovoked attack on your person by this assailant; in fact, some two hundred years ago, and in a past life. In an earlier reincarnation, as it were.”

“Yes, sir.”

The headmaster sat back and laced his fingers. “Well, I am pleased to inform you that one of this school’s rules dealing with this type of complaint clearly states that no disciplinary action can be taken in cases such as this.”

“It can’t, sir?”

“No, it can’t. I say pleased, because I find the thought of wading into such deep waters as these, well, positively nightmarish.” He smiled. “Yes. It’s a sort of statute of limitations, do you see?”

“Not really, sir. I was hoping for justice.”

“Ah! Justice.” He lowered his voice. “However, I should add here, that I expressly forbid you to follow this boy after school, and in a place well away from the school’s premises, to deliver two very hard thumps to his shoulder.” He raised his eyebrows. “Do you understand?”

The youngster gave a grateful smile and said, “I do, sir. Thank you, sir.”

The boy left the room with a clenched fist.