Author: Alexander Fawn

The old man was sitting, where he could so often be found, under the tree.

The weather was hot and he was having trouble staying awake. He was stooped forward, concentrating on something on the ground in front of him. It was a small, brightly coloured bird. He looked up as the back gate was opened with a squeak. The man entering the garden had known him for most of his life, since they sat together in the village school. He often marvelled at the fact that their lives had gone in such widely different directions. He had studied and become sufficiently qualified to hold an administrative post in the nearby town council office. His old friend, on the other hand… well, by his early teens he’d been quite different than most. Life hadn’t been kind to him, regarding his odd behaviour and way of thinking. Over the years it had only grown worse. Most would say that he was now such an oddball and understandably suffered the derision of many in the village. Although this had always saddened him, their friendship had never wavered.

Today, the man’s demeanour was even stranger than usual. He went back to muttering and nodding at the bird. The man finally looked up, looking as though he’d been caught out.

“Well, you see, all creatures have stories,” he began, “You might say, that’s all they have. Around the globe, they all have their own stories. People, animals and insects alike.” He chuckled. “You may also consider that’s all they have. Their time here is simply made up of many stories. So many, don’t you see?”

His friend nodded. “And this one, what’s his story, he’s quite unusual, what kind of bird is it?”

“Not important; don’t you see? She is a creature. As I was saying… all creatures. I commune with them all.”

The other just shrugged.

“Anyway,” the man continued, “there’s not much going on in her world today, but I’m well up to date with her past.”

After a very long and awkward passage of silence, his visitor looked up into a blue sky, saying, “Well, you do have a good day for it. I’d better get on.” He bent and gave the man’s hand a customary shake.

As he left idyllic, green surroundings, stepping out into the back street, as always, he couldn’t help wondering about his friend. His obsession with this invisible communication he insisted he had… Could he really have that ability?

What’s more to the point, he thought, who has the right to say he hasn’t?

He had never had a day like it.

It would be hard for any bystander to say what it was that put him in the emergency ward, but he was definitely mumbling something about ringing. His day had not started well. The battery dying in his portable alarm clock started it all. He woke half an hour late and cut himself shaving. Out at the car, it wouldn’t start. Hard to believe, but this was a case of two in a row. He waited an age for a bus. When he got off and began the five minute walk to the shop he tried to check the time, but dropped the phone instead. The glass was cracked and the screen was black. By the time he arrived at his boutique patisserie shop it was late morning. Those customers that would have been waiting for the shop to open first thing, to pick up their beginning-of-the-day orders, were long gone.

As he entered he was greeted by two sounds, the phone was ringing and he thought he could hear water running. In the back he found the room was flooded. The tap was running, he was sure he’d turned it off. Maybe the washer, he thought. The phone was still ringing. Regardless, he sloshed his way through ankle deep water to reach the sink. Turning the tap stopped the flow. He’d think about it later. He’d also sort the flooding out later. He really needed to open the shop. On the way back through he switched the kettle on. He hadn’t even had time for a cuppa before leaving home. It made a crackling noise that he hadn’t noticed before, but the light came on.

The phone was still ringing.

He returned to the front and turned the sign to ‘open’ and it fell off. The sucker was still in place, but the cord had broken. He picked it up and did a quick knotting job and put it back against the window. The phone was still ringing, but his attention was drawn to a peculiar smell. Then he noticed smoke coming from the back. He ran in to find the plastic power base that holds the kettle was melting and smouldering and the paper notes pinned to the board behind it were on fire. Being careful to avoid touching the hot metal, he picked the kettle up and splashed water over the flames. He finally got it all out, noting that a lot of what was there would probably now be unreadable. The phone was still ringing.

Back at the front, he was making his way around the counter to get to the phone, when his arm caught the side of a display stand, sending the rack of pastry toppings and fillings crashing to the floor. One of the larger jars quickly rolled towards the front door, where it smashed, creating a large pool of maple syrup. The phone was still ringing. He moved towards it as the front door opened. He held up a hand to warn the customer to step over it. He apologised and bent down and reached in to a low cupboard to grab a cloth and a dustpan and brush to temporarily clean it up.

As he came up, he banged his head on the overlapping end of the counter. The phone was still ringing. He stood dazed for a moment before raising a finger, asking the customer to wait a moment.

He reached across and picked up the phone, he said in an exasperated voice, “Hello, whose speaking?”

The voice at the other end said, “You are.”

His eyes rolled up, his knees buckled and with a whimper, he collapsed to the floor, causing a number of jars to roll around.

That’s when the customer called for an ambulance…

The two consultant psychologists stood looking into the waiting room through a one-way mirror. The man they were looking at was in his mid-twenties. He was sitting nervously. His whole body twitched from time to time.

“You’d like me to see him?” asked the first specialist.

“Yes. I’d appreciate that, if you wouldn’t mind,” said the other.

“Certainly. You’ve seen him, how often?”

“Just the once, but like I said, he presents with some strange notion that he’s some sort of hand-me-down. He says that he’s tired of being second-hand.”

“Hand-me-down?”

“Yes. I think he feels that he’s not new, not original in some way.”

“Ah! Was he adopted?”

“No.”

“A case of rivalry with brothers or sisters, maybe?”

“No. He’s an only child.”

“Nothing significant about his parents, I suppose?

“Not that I can make out. His father owns a shop in town, selling clocks mainly, and he does repairs. She’s a housewife. Everything normal there, I’d say.”

“OK. I’ll see him,” he said and went to his room, where he had the receptionist send the patient through. They sat together for some time, the psychologist asking questions and the man giving perfectly logical answers.

Finally, the man slumped in his chair. “I just don’t want to be a second hand,” he mumbled. “Life just moves much too fast and it never stops!”

The psychologist wasn’t quite sure what he’d heard. “Let me get this clear. Did you say you don’t want to be… a second hand?”

“No. I certainly don’t. Second hands just keep moving… all the time! At least a minute hand only has to move once a minute.” He thought for a moment. Then, as though the idea had only just occurred to him for the first time, he said, “What I’d really like to be is an hour hand. That only moves round a few times a day. Do you see?”

“I do. So, you find that all of life has become intolerably busy for you. Is that it?”

The man smiled and giving out a long sigh, he said, “Yes.”

“I think we can help you,” said the psychologist.

The boy stood, looking down the back garden, wondering whether his father had meant it when he promised to build him a treehouse, his own special place. He had a friend that had one. It wasn’t very good. Too small and rickety. His friend’s mother didn’t like them climbing into it. She said it wasn’t safe. His one, he was told, would be built a lot stronger. Looking at what trees they had, it was obvious that he’d have to wait for at least one of them to grow. It had to be big enough and strong enough for the job.

–

The young man stood, looking down the back garden. He was thinking back to a time when his father said he would build him a treehouse, his own special place. He felt a wave of sadness when he looked at the tallest tree and how that would have been the one to use. This never happened. It was around the time he left school and got his first job that his dad was diagnosed with Myasthenia, a muscle weakness that came on him fast. It was a bad time that ended with him leaving work and going onto a disability pension. He had been a draftsman, an office job, but when he could no longer drive, just getting to the train station became impossible for him. The tests and the treatments seemed to go on forever. It was a bad time for the whole family. He couldn’t remember his dad ever talking about the fact that the treehouse would never get built.

–

The man stood, looking down the back garden. He’d been an only child, but now he was married with two daughters growing up fast. He looked at the tree that could have been his own special place. His girls had never shown any inkling to have him build a treehouse. When he suggested he build one for himself, his wife quite naturally said that it wasn’t a good idea. He had to agree. Now, with both parents gone, he had to be content with keeping the garden looking nice. They had added a couple of garden seats. He would sometimes sit on one, it being no replacement for a treehouse, but gave him a sense of being in his own small, special world.

–

The old man stood, leaning on his stick, looking down the back garden. His wife, now long gone, had fought cancer and lost. She had lived to a good old age, but the loss still haunted him. The girls, now both married women, had lives of their own. Their occasional visits meant a lot to him. He looked passed the trees to the back corner of the garden, and his own special place. A few years back, when he was still able, he took on a small building project. Buying a quantity of old cleaned-up bricks, along with other materials, he set about creating the small world that he’d always dreamed of. He walked slowly down to the end of the garden. He opened the little door and entered his folly!

It was deemed to be an accidental drowning.

It had been a terrible tragedy. Although, some might say it was an accident just waiting to happen. As was so often the case, she was blind drunk when she fell into the pool. She had never learned to swim. Her husband was beside himself with grief when he found her floating face down. Her blood alcohol level was through the roof. No autopsy was required. However, someone knew better. There had been a witness. He had been there. He had seen it, but all things considered, there was not a damned thing he could do about it.

But, hey! He thinks, as long as the hand that pushed her in. keeps opening tins of cat food, who am I to complain?

He was one of the home’s oldest residents.

He was liked by all; staff and patients alike. Unlike some of the inmates, he was allowed to take bus rides into town. It was on his return from one such occasion that he came back full of the incident that happened at the bus stop, just as he was getting off. Others could see how excited he was. Several residents gathered around to hear what he had to say.

“I saw him!” he started. “I’m pretty sure it was him.” He slapped his knees. “It was Pugsley; as large as life. What a character he was.” He looked around, beaming with joy. “We had some great times together. You never knew what he’d do next. Of course, this was school days. There were times when he’d get me into trouble…” He shook his head. “No doubt about that!” He laughed. “Of course, I’m not one hundred percent sure it was him. It was a long time ago.” He chuckled to himself. “He used to make these little paper aeroplanes, you know the things, and he’d fly them around the classroom. After a while all us kids would be doing it, but Pugsley started it. It got to the point one day when the teacher… crabby old thing, can’t remember her name, stopped the class and gave us a real talking to; threatened to send letters home to all our parents. I don’t think she would have done it, but at the time, being just kids, we didn’t know that.”

He paused and looked around at his audience. “What a character,” he repeated. “I’m pretty sure it was him. Of course, he’s changed a lot. He used to where this red, baseball cap. Lord knows where he got it from. Not part of the school uniform, of course. Ah! What a character,” he said again.

He sat back, rubbing the back of his neck.

“It could have been him. I’m not really sure,” he whispered.

It was having a hard time studying on its current level.

Like so many students had thought in the past, was it really necessary to learn about such things? What was the point of it? Would it improve one to know about it? The mentor would be close soon. It struggled on. Eventually, the mentor arrived.

• What are you studying?
• I’m on level 37 on strata 12.
• Yes, a difficult period to study.
• Definately.
• And you’re struggling with?
• 37.9
• Oh! Yes. Discrimination laws throughout the twentieth centuries.
• Tell me what difficulties you have found so far.
• Religion. Well, not just religion. This whole area of race, colour and creed seems to be so unreal. It is hard to learn about ideas that don’t seem real.
• It is hard, but you might find it easier to stay focused if you continually keep the concept in front of you that you are dealing with a long-gone period when beings operated in bodies…

Forgetful electrician, Samuel Sprocket,

Had just done some wiring for Mrs. Ethel Crocket.

When he got home to Bletchley Locket

He put his coat away with something in the pocket.

Now, Sam had forgotten the all-important docket,

That he got when he purchased a double-wall-socket.

When he comes to do his books, he’s bound to get a rocket,

For making no allowance for the Crocket socket docket!

The communication expert was talking to one of his students.

The professor, a regular lecturer on the Bachelor of Communications degree course at the university, saw the opportunity to unburden himself by chatting with one of his favourite students.

He was saying, “It’s all about sarcasm, you know.”

The student sat listening patiently.

The professor nodded. “Sarcasm, even before modern technology, it’s been the cause of many wars.”

The student joined him in nodding.

“You see, back in the day of punch cards, sarcasm wasn’t a problem,” he went on. “It was simple then. Just a card with holes. Any given location on the card either had a hole punched right there or it didn’t. Dead easy, right? If the card had a hole or a group of holes that represented ‘yes’ that was it! ‘Yes’ meant ‘yes’ and ‘no’ meant ‘no’. No argument there. Communicating commands that controlled automated machinery through data processing applications was made easy. Simple, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

A pained expression came over the professor’s face. “Then, some smartarse, no, a whole string of smartarses come along with things like personal computers, keyboards, mice and trackpads. Then came emails. These could be fairly dodgy. Nothing could cause as much trouble as that which came next; voice control! Now, you have to be really careful.”

The student nodded again.

“Look, we all know that when a person has swerved off the road and hit a tree, causing the car to burst into flames and then stands back watching it, he says “That went well,” he doesn’t really mean it. But when a person looks down at a shirt that has been ironed, leaving only a few miniscule wrinkles, says “Nice job of ironing,” well, it could go either way, and that’s the problem with voice control.”

The professor shuddered. “I have to tell you, the hairs stood up on the back of my neck the other day when I read an article about the next step. Can you imagine how dangerous, how even more pear-shaped the whole thing could get with the advent of thought control.” His eyebrows lifted. “Can you imagine the number of things that can go wrong when someone blurts out some impulsive thought? How great would that be, eh?”

“Sir, aren’t you being sarcastic?”

Sometimes the two boys were joined by the strange kid from up the street.

They usually played across the road in the park, just the two of them. They would climb on the equipment in the playground, one thing at a time. Sometimes competing with one another, sometimes not. Often just sitting down, talking. Today was going to be different because the weird boy was already there, waiting for them. They pulled faces at each other, but neither of them meant him any harm. He was just different! Their parents had said that; they said that they should be nice to him. They were resigned to the fact that they would include him. They waved as they approached and immediately started clambering over the colourful structures that were spread out over a rubberised matting for safety.

At first the strange kid just squatted on the grass and watched them play. After a while he stood up and wandered across the adjoining football field and disappeared from sight. They both watched him go and shrugged.

When the boy returned, he seemed to have something in his hand. He went to one of the several benches and sat looking at it for a while. Then, he got up and made his way back to where he’d been. Not long after, he appeared again with something. Again he spent time at the bench for a while before taking off again, this time walking much faster.

Of course, the other two were aware of this peculiar behaviour, but played on regardless.

The boy’s trips back and forth went on for some time, but eventually he knelt in front of the bench, as though he was arranging something. It was simple curiosity that brought the other two down from the play equipment to see what was going on. When they arrived they could see the display of grass that the boy had been forming. Several individual blades were neatly laid out in a criss-cross pattern. The boy stood up, and said, “What do you think?”

“Yeah, great!” one of them said.

The boy looked pleased with the response. “You wouldn’t believe what I found,” he said, with enthusiasm.

“What? Where?” said the other.

“I’ll show you.” Having said this, he started out across the park.

With even more curiosity building, they followed. Beyond the park’s boundary of trees, they all arrived at a point where they stood looking out at a large area of unmown grass.

The boy went forward and plucked a blade and brought it back to show the other two. He held it up with pride. “There you are, you see!” He turned back to the overgrown field. He waved his arm. “Just look at that, there are so many of them!”

The two boys looked at one another.

One sighed and shook his head.

The other said, “He’s right you know, there are a lot!”