Author: Alexander Fawn

He would be going home on the late train, exhausted from a long day in the city.

There were only a few people waiting when he entered the chilly platform. When the train pulled in, the sprinkling of passengers spread out along the carriages. He considered the fact that each of them could probably find a compartment to themselves. He did; it would be perfect for him to set the time on his phone and get at least twenty minutes of much needed sleep. He had just finished setting it when a young woman entered and took the window seat opposite. He smiled and nodded politely, not showing his disappointment. Apart from the strong lemon scented perfume, he couldn’t help noticing the sadness in her eyes. He could see them becoming moist. He guessed that she was reacting to some recent incident that left her weepy. Probably a tiff with the boyfriend, he thought, as he felt the tiredness well up again.

His drifting off was interrupted by a loud rustling noise. She was scrabbling inside her bag for something. She took a sweet out and began unwrapping it. He watched as she found another, and with the closest thing she could muster to a smile, held it out to him. He grimaced and shook his head. He was tired, but he didn’t want to be impolite. He raised the palm of his hand towards her and closed his eyes.

It was the howling wind and the rush of cold air that woke him. The window was completely pulled down. He got up and closed it. Slumping back down and coming out of his sleep, he looked around.

The woman was gone, leaving just half-a-dozen wrappers and a strong lemon fragrance…

Their conversation came round to one of their old school friends.

The man sitting with his friend in the café was saying, “I really didn’t know much about computers. They’re not for everybody, you know.”

The other said, “I lost touch with him. Didn’t know him well; he was two years ahead of me at school. You kept in touch then?

“Sort of; on and off.”

“You were saying, about computers?”

“Yes, although most people would laugh if they knew, it seems that he’d been tapping away on his grandfather’s ancient typewriter for ages before he decided to get one. That’s when he rang me to tell me about it. He reckoned his pc was going to open up a whole new world for him. He told me he spent many long nights, and some days when he could, using the word processor to transfer just about everything from hard copy to electronic format. He said he found the machine in a second-hand shop, but soon discovered that it had very little memory. He told me his files were slowing it down. Apparently, he had intermittent internet capability that allowed him to research the problem.”

The man drank more coffee, looked up shaking his head and went on.

“He said that it came as a surprise to him that an ideal application existed that would clean up his drive and give him more space and more speed. The site said ‘Clean up your documents. Remove the clutter. Allow your machine to run faster.’ Well, he saw this to be exactly what he needed. He was so excited, he reckoned it was a fantastic app that he’d found quite by chance.”

“So, he used it?”

“He did. He had three draft documents that he wanted to get rid of and he figured getting rid of these would be a good place to start. The computer program guaranteed that it would search out any other unwanted files that were associated with them. So, he selected the unwanted documents and started the program. It was at this point that his computer started to make a violent buzzing noise.”

The man telling the story fell silent.

The listener said, “And?”

“Dunno.”

“I mean, what happened?”

“Like I said, dunno. He was on the phone telling me about it when the phone went dead.”

He sighed. “Haven’t heard from him since. Did hear that he’d gone recluse. Probably went back to the typewriter.”

The nightclub was in a state of complete chaos.

There had been so much shooting that people out in the street heard it. Someone had phoned the police and within minutes two detectives turned up. Nobody was allowed to leave until everybody’s statements were taken. There were so many that they called in a couple of uniforms to help out. They all had to be questioned; all two hundred and eleven of them! The wounded, seventeen of them, were ambulanced away. The four people shot, three men and one woman, were left were they fell and would be examined when the path team arrived. Meanwhile, everyone was corralled into a corner of the dancefloor and called forward one at a time. All twelve firearms were collected and tagged; which of these had been fired would be determined later.

While this was going on, the pathology people were doing their thing, examining the bodies and taking pictures. Four sets of tables and chairs were arranged away from the other patrons enabling the four officers to get names, addresses and brief statements. Although it wasn’t clear at the time, but would become clear later, the whole thing had started with two of the club’s attendees getting into an argument. Regardless of this, it was only necessary to get statements without trying to work out how such a horrible scene of bedlam and loss of life had come about. The statements being gathered were however showing up a general pattern of discord among the people in the club.

Certainly, the flashing lights and the loud music didn’t help. There had been a few moments of complete darkness between the dance lights being turned off and normal lighting coming on. Detectives were there for hours taking statements. There seemed to be a common thread of dissatisfaction with just about everything running through what the officers were being told. Although it was not apparent what particular issue had started it all off. It may have been gender equality, but it’s hard to tell.

It seemed to kick off with heated arguments about gender equality and transgender rights, but this got taken over by more people joining in, voicing issues about union corruption, capital punishment, corruption in politics and gay rights. Then abortion issues came into it, along with animal rights, religious freedom, the right to privacy, human trafficking and the legalization of marijuana. As far as anyone could tell, a quite separate group began fiercely debating capitalism, the behaviour of the banks, the student debt crisis, minimum wage, and universal healthcare. There were quarrels about police brutality and terrorism. It was probably the shouting matches on the subjects of immigration, gun control, global climate change, genetic cloning, the right to die and the pharmaceutical industry that led to guns being drawn. It all seemed to go downhill very fast from that point. From the various accounts of what happened, it could be seen that things quietened down when COVID-19 was mentioned. This was soon followed by someone mentioning the US presidents name.

That’s when the shooting started.

When her condition was diagnosed, it was all about coming and going.

She seemed to have had problems with doors all her life. Well, portals really. She would go through a door in order to get somewhere, either inside or out, but returning through the same door she would often wind up somewhere else! It was confusing, and often really inconvenient. When it first started, at a very young age, she and her parents put it down to her having a poor memory. Now, approaching twenty, she was taking the whole thing much more seriously and she was determined to get to the bottom of it.

The recent experience of getting on a bus just across the street from where she worked, and then moments later getting off a train, not far from where she lived, was the final straw. She knew she had to do something about it. The door thing was bad enough, but the buses and trains fiasco was definitely not on. The incident had certainly frightened her. From the point of view of her leaving work and arriving home at around her regular time, it was not an actual problem. However, beyond that, it was a nightmare!

That evening she opened her laptop and searched for psychology services. She found what she considered to be the best. He was one of the top psychologists in the city, and probably the most expensive. The next morning she made the earliest possible appointment.

The early morning session went well. The man certainly gave the impression that he knew what he was about. At the end of the hour she felt more confident about the whole thing than ever before, throughout all the dreadful years she had suffered from the condition. His diagnosis was based on the idea that she was simply having hallucinations. The drug he prescribed would sharpen up her senses. She filled the prescription on the way to work. As soon as she arrived in the office she took a tablet. For the remainder of the day she felt amazingly relaxed. Just before leaving work she used the ladies room.

When she came out of the cubicle, she found herself somewhere else. She looked around, it was somewhere else entirely! She followed the passage until she emerged into a huge, high vaulted hall with odd-looking figures moving around slowly at the far end. She looked up at the strangely illuminated sign.

It read, ‘Magnasia 7 Space Port’.

The time came when he was expecting a visit from the emissary.

He probably had only a few hours to go; or minutes even. He couldn’t recall when it all began. It hadn’t been a bad life, he thought. He’ll never know how much it would have differed if he hadn’t gone through with it. On the face of it, there was nothing unusual about it. Just the basic contract. Live a long and full life that brings everything that your heart desires, with the agreement that the devil gets your soul when you pass on. He was contemplating the life he’d led and the riches he’d accumulated, when suddenly the room went dim and an orange glow lit up the corner of the room. He heard an evil chuckle as the demon appeared. With a grin, he held up the scroll, loudly proclaiming, “The contract!”

“Ah!” said the man, in a low voice.

“I’ve come to collect,” said the collector of souls.

The man shrugged. “Yes, regarding that. There could be a glitch there.”

The creature hesitated. “Glitch? What glitch?”

“That day you showed up. Do you remember getting a papercut from the contract’s heavy parchment?”

“I do, as it happens.”

“Well, while you were wrapping it with the bandage I gave you, before I signed, I dipped the pen in a drop of the blood you spilt…”

He was dancing.

He was swimming. He was climbing a tree. He was playing hopscotch. He was running for a bus. He was surfing the waves. He was digging in the garden. He was running through a field. He was running along a beach. He was climbing to the top of a hill. He was bouncing on a trampoline. He was running up a flight of stairs. He was playing tennis with a friend. He was walking through a shopping centre. He was in a relay race, about to hand over the baton. He was peering down into the murky water wondering if it was safe…

He was dozing.

He woke up, he was still there, as usual.

He was sitting in his wheelchair by the window, remembering…

There were things he could do… and some that he couldn’t.

He could finally sort the DVD title spines alphabetically across the shelves, as he had always intended. He could finish the novel that he’d put aside when things got busy. He could write the letter that he owes his cousin who lives overseas. He could gather together clothes that are overdue for dry-cleaning. He could empty the larder and clean it out before replacing things neatly. He could vacuum out the car and give it a wash and polish. He could sand down and repaint the garden’s aging bench seat. He could take the plant out of the pot and find a spot for it in the garden. He could fix the loose hinge on the shed door. He could edge the flowerbed with bricks to improve its appearance. He could trim the hedge in the front garden. He could oil the dry hinges on the garden gate. He could file his test results with the rest of his medical paperwork.

…but he couldn’t stop the cancer.

He was such a lovely old man.

Now, on his death bed, his seven-year-old grandson was such a comfort during these final hours. Naturally, his children and all other relations were in and out continually, but the special closeness he felt for the young boy was something quite exceptional. They had built up a powerful yet completely natural rapport over the relatively short number of years they had enjoyed each other’s company.

The youngster was old enough to realise that all was not well with the old man. The wheezing was getting worse and his speech was slower, with words often being slurred and at times melding into one. The drawn, wrinkled face was losing its colour; time was getting close.

It was an extra special moment when the boy climbed up onto the bed and hugged the man in his dying moments. As he lifted his young head to look directly into the old man’s drowsy eyes, something passed between them. His grandfather gave silent thanks for all the times they had shared together. The boy, knew that all sorts of things would happen when his grandfather died; he’d heard several lengthy conversations between his parents on the subject.

He couldn’t help wondering if he’d be mentioned in the will…

The ship had almost arrived at its mission’s destination.

The two men onboard were elite members of the Galaxy Force’s deep space search unit. For most of the journey they had slept in their pods. The vessel’s computer had roused them in good time to make the final manoeuvres that would put them into orbit around the appointed planet. It was vital that they gather readings and return with them. This would enable them to be studied by the team of experts in the force’s deep space analysis unit. The navigator had been sitting at the array of navigation control panels for some time. He’d been running the ship’s history report that covered the voyage so far.

The captain said, “Are we clear yet?”

“Almost, sir,” came the reply, as the navigator pulled down the short wave inhibitor control lever slowly, allowing the inertia vortex to stabilise.

“Sequence complete, sir.”

“Good. How long?”

The navigator checked. “Just over three minutes now, captain.”

“Well done. Carry on.”

With this, the navigator checked all of the pre-orbit settings once more. He then looked across at the course parameters display to confirm that they had returned to the pre-set trajectory. Satisfied with these, he twirled a few knobs to ensure that all five vertical transponders were correctly aligned before he switched to auto drive. He settled back and watched the sonar grid screen, with its checkerboard pattern of space and the tiny pulsating blip that represented their ship. He knew that these newfangled sonar transceivers, that automatically transmitted signals on reception of the incoming designated signals, would automatically lock in the required coordinates, but he liked to watch the screen, anyway.

The two men sat back waiting for the final moments of their long flight to be taken over by the auto drive’s final phase. Neither astronaut felt any gravitational changes as the ship swang sharply around the outer edge of the swirl of tiny rock fragments that formed the extensive ring system of planet Bethema KP384. Nor could they feel or hear the constant pounding of countless tiny particles that were blasting the hull. Their craft was the best in the fleet, which is why they had been given the mission to locate and report on the stability of the distant planet. In fact, it was a truly incredible distance from their own Milky Way Galaxy; that is, if the photometric redshift readings were accurate.

With seat buckles snapped into place, they sat back as the craft dropped smoothly into orbit around the planet. Moments later the navigator leant forward and flipped the environmental scanner on. The screen remained black. He toggled the switch a couple of times.

The captain said, “Problem?”

“Not sure,” came the brief reply, as the navigator remove the front panel and began poking around.

The next time the captain looked across, his blood ran cold. The other was holding a small item up against the cabin’s light.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“It’s a low amperage fuse, sir.”

The captain saw that the navigator had taken on an expression not unlike that of a small child. He noted that is lower lip quivered slightly. He took a deep breath, knowing full well that he had only become a Galaxy Force’s ship’s captain because he was able to demonstrate an unwavering stoicism in the face of misadventure.

In a voice that betrayed none of his rising panic, he asked, “do we have a spare?”

Through the dramas of what we call the modern age,

With its disorder plainly seen.

Searching for answers amongst the constellations

For a lost paradise that may, or may not have been.

–

Our voices stolen by the vastness of the universe.

Gods worshiping gods, with the old gods losing ground.

And all such unreported things, like unfinished poems,

Like something triggered in the core, but not yet found.

The scattered patterns of the cosmos fail to compliment nature’s art.

Locks turning, wheels moving, a great swirling in the sky.

Scripted thoughts for the masses, in harmony with their lot,

With the disposal of all that’s temporal standing by.

–

The fear found when the ticking stops,

As by forcing a puzzle’s piece in place,

All hiding and seeking gradually dissolves,

While hope runs on apace.

–

Any love of life is a recovered loss

Within the dearest part of a mortal heart.

Lives fleeting with the scattered light,

Each fulfilling some unknown part.

–

Internet sycophants now follow their familiar paths.

With imperfect symmetry found in Babylon,

And goodwill lays cold on the doorstep of lunacy,

While we use the hidden warmth of charity,

Grasp whatever we can find,

And staunchly soldier on.