Author: Alexander Fawn

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.

It seemed like a very good deal at the time.

It all started when he bumped into an old school mate in the bar. When he’d known him at school he came across as being a bit of a clever-clogs, but apparently he’d done well for himself. He was a techie in a company that uses the latest technology to produce 3D modelling for the development and design of intercontinental ballistic missiles. After a few drinks, the techie came up with a plan to make some quick, easy money. He explained that from time to time, when things got really busy, the main server at the company gets clogged and he has to go in and fix it. For those short periods he has time to download copies of the latest IBM schematics.

Then, it got really interesting. He said he knew a guy that worked in the Russian Embassy that would pay twenty grand for them. Thing is, he explains, I can’t risk being seen with him. I need someone to hand the flash drive over. He said he’d been on the lookout for a random outsider that could act as a go-between for the exchange. He said that the problem was that the go-between would be in possession of schematics that could be worth millions if they found the right fence. Not only that, at one point, they would be holding a great deal of cash. For this reason the techie would need to come up with a bond of a thousand, cash in hand, to be returned when the deal was done. When the transaction was complete, the go-between would get the one thousand back plus five of the twenty grand.

After listening to all this with great interest, he agree to play his part. They would meet at the bar the following evening. The USB stick, sealed in a plain envelope, would be handed over for the agreed bond. On the following week, on a specified day and time, he would call at the embassy, ask for Alexei, who would hand over a sealed envelope containing the twenty grand. They would meet back at the bar that evening to divvy up.

On the following evening they met again in the bar, were the bond and schematics changed hands. When he got home he simply had to take a peak. He loaded it up to see what was being paid for, knowing full well that he probably wouldn’t understand what he was looking at. After viewing the contents, he was really glad that he had opened it. This way he loses a grand, instead of the likely outcomes of either becoming involved in an international incident, or being put on trial as a traitor, or being robbed of his ability to breathe.

When he had opened it, he had been gob-smacked to find himself watching a ten minute video clip of Dutch clog dancing.

He managed to hold the plastic beaker against the wall, with great difficulty.

Then, with a much greater degree of effort, he snuggled his ear up to the base of it, and listened. None of these complex manoeuvres were easy for a rat. His wife looked on. She knew that he did stuff in this part of the wall cavity with the Greek yogurt container he dragged in one day, but had never fully realised why. This time she had watched the strange performance carefully. She looked on in silence.

“They’re at it again,” he whispered.

She went to speak, but he squinted disapproval.

“I just need to be sure,” he murmured, readjusting the position of his ear and closing his eyes.

“Wow! Here they go! They’re hard at it now, going hammer and tong they are. I’ve often wondered where these humans get all this anger from. I mean, they’ve got it made, haven’t they? Life’s a doddle for these folk, yet they carry on like this.” He turned his head and let the cup fall. “Just had to be sure, sometimes it’s the telly.”

She shrugged. “Telly?”

“Yep. These guys have TV programs where the humans watch other humans shout at each other… on the telly. It’s part of what they call entertainment.”

She bristled. “How do you know all this stuff?”

He grinned. “I get around.”

She looked suspicious. “OK. You get around, but this… this pantomime with the yogurt pot; what’s that all about?”

“Quite simple, my dear. When these guys get into a blazing row like this, it only means one thing.”

Her nose twitched. “And that is?”

“Food!”

“Food?”

“Yes, and plenty of it.”

Her cute little shiny eyes grew wider.

“It has been my observation,” he went on, “that she does the cooking and he washes up afterwards.” He grinned again, adding, “Usually.”

“Usually?”

“Yes, but not on these occasions. When they have a right old ding dong like this he does a bit of washing up, but not much. He likes to leave a real mess for her in the morning.”

She was shaking her head and frowning.

He went on. “Of course, in amongst all this mess… food scraps. Last time they carried on like this I brought back all that grated cheese and tomato pips. Remember?”

“Of course I do. It was a real feast. I seem to remember that it lasted us several days.”

“Yes, well, from what I’ve heard here tonight, we’re in for a giant haul.”

Tiny pink fists wiped at her teary eyes. Her tail flipped back and forth a couple of times. Her head fell to one side and she whispered, “What a guy!”