Author: Alexander Fawn

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.

It was regarded as an unsavoury part of town.

Although the coffee shop he’d taken refuge in, after his heavy stint of shopping, was pleasant enough. Happy to put down his two large bags, he sat comfortably sipping his coffee and relaxing for the first time since leaving home several hours earlier. It had been hectic out there. The shops were crowded and he’d had to try a number of stores to get what he wanted. As a result of his nonstop day, he realised that he needed a toilet. Looking around, he saw the sign. Then he stared down at the huge bags at his feet. He couldn’t see himself lugging those in there with him. To say the least, it would be awkward.

He looked around. The man facing him at the next table was eating a large scone with his drink. He felt sure he wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon. He studied him for a moment. He looked kind; that was the only way he could describe him.

Looking straight at him. He began tapping his chest and pointing to the toilet sign. This was followed by a gesture that indicated his large bags. He raised his eyebrows.

The man smiled and slowly nodded.

When he returned just a few minutes later, he was horrified to find that his bags were gone!

He felt the anger burning away at him as he approached the man, still sitting there, happily nibbling at his pastry. The man who was supposed to watch his bags.

It was only then that he noticed the white cane.

They were getting dressed to go out.

It was something they had done far more often when they were young. He was just about ready, but she was still sitting in front of the mirror. She had come back from the hairdresser’s that afternoon with the latest hair style, obviously pleased with it as she thought it made her look younger. She was applying lipstick as he came up behind her resting his hands lightly on her shoulders.

He smiled at her reflection. “I like the bracelet.”

Her faced brightened and she nodded. “Yes, it’s lovely isn’t it? It’s almost fifty years old now. I don’t wear it very often, it’s too special. I would hate to lose it.” She held up her wrist. “It’s quite fragile. You bought this for me just a week before you proposed. We found it in that little second-hand shop near the hotel in Barcelona. It was such a hot day. I remember we had time to kill before they served lunch and we went in partly to get out of the heat. I wasn’t sure at first, but you said that it might get sold if we left it a day to think about it. Ah! You were so right, my love.”

She looked up at him with eyes full of love. “You remember, don’t you?”

He nodded slowly. “Of course I do,” he said, knowing that to say anything else would spoil the evening.

It was meant to be a secret.

Lucas told James who told Emma who told Noah who told him. He couldn’t believe that the thing had got out. It was supposed to be hush-hush. He went to tell Amelia about it, but she already knew. Apparently William had told Ethan who had told Evelyn who heard it from Charlotte who told Amelia. She asked him if Oliver knew. He said he didn’t know, but he’d find out. Oliver said that he’d been told by Ava. It turned out that Mia had told Isabella who had told Benjamin who told Oliver. He turned in his seat and looked around. There were just fifteen kids in his class. So much for secrets.

They all knew!

Most that knew him regarded him as perfectly normal, despite his being a genius.

When the time came for him to go away for a while, it seemed reasonable enough. He just needed a bit of space, a bit of peace and quiet. He said he’d be gone less than a week. The university regarded his contribution to the Theology Project, put simply, the study of God, so great that they approved a short impromptu break without hesitation. None of the project’s team members were surprised that he had taken time off. Several of them had been concerned that he was pushing himself too hard. They felt he was heading for a burnout, and a break from it all would be good for him.

Beyond saying that he needed to resolve one or two issues, nobody actually knew where he was going or what he was planning to do. Being single with no pets to look after, his colleagues figured he would just lock up and leave.

It was when one of them happened to drive passed his house a couple of nights later, seeing his car still in the drive with some house lights on, that they began to wonder. That’s how one thing led to another. When the police called around they found him in the lounge room, slumped in an armchair, still holding the gun.

There was a note on the table.

It read, ‘I am making a short visit to heaven to speak with God. I feel sure He’ll clear up a couple of sticking points for me. I will provide the university with a full report on my return.’

He lay in bed, wondering.

For some reason he felt it necessary to think back over his life. He thought about his losses. First, his wife to pancreatic cancer, then his boy, running after a ball that had rolled out into the busy road. Losses and gains. He considered the company he had built and the solid reputation it had gained over the years. Losses and gains. Everybody has them, but each person sets the balance, and to some degree controls the unravelling of events, determines the balance of losses and gains. He remembers the early beginnings. In a way, like most people he’d started with nothing. He guessed that you’d have to say he made slow progress with his business at first. He had borrowings and a lot of hard work. Slowly and little by little he built it up. Over time, the business became solid with regular orders and a staff of five.

He was weighing it all up. He remembered the opening of the second store. That was a busy time. Taking on more people and buying the vehicle. He thought about how much more time he had to spend with the bank and his accountant. Keeping track of finances took up more and more of his time as the firm expanded. It took careful planning when the warehouse and further store became part of the operation. There were so many commercial decisions to make and so many more on the payroll. But, he had managed it all. Had succeeded in monitoring and controlling the growth of it in the marketplace. He was weighing it all up. Losses and gains.

He looked up from the bed. It was a good hospital, he knew that. All of his ailments came down to old age, he knew that too. He closed his eyes; he had weighed enough.

As a new recruit in the force, his job was simple enough.

He was tasked with receiving complaints from those members of the public calling in. It should have been simple. He would take complaint calls and make out a report. This was forwarded to an investigating officer, who would follow up with a call back, and sometimes with a visit to the complaining party. The phone call in question came in mid-afternoon and lasted until his knocking off time. It came from an angry woman who basically complained about her lodger, who was constantly annoying and confusing her. She felt that the advice she had received on a recent visit to her ridiculously expensive psychiatrist, about holding her breath and counting slowly to ten, just wasn’t going to cut the mustard.

The lady in question rented out her back room to a lodger who was an elderly gentleman recently retired. He had spent many years producing cryptic crosswords for a major newspaper. This constant activity of coming up with cryptic clues had spilled over into his everyday life. It was his constant habit to use such language while carrying out what would otherwise be normal, run-of-the-mill discourse with people. Of course, this included his landlady. She was a single woman in her early fifties who had never been fond of crosswords and certainly didn’t have the temperament for conversations based on obscure phraseology. In fact, anyone who knew her would tell you that she had little patience and a filthy temper.

It was a long call, with her doing most of the talking, together with a fair amount of crying, shouting and swearing. His report on the call was equally lengthy and he left the station late. Unhappily, his keenness to excel in his duties wasn’t reflected in the aftermath. His report failed to convey any hint regarding the fact that the lodger lay in a pool of his own blood the following morning, and quite naturally this particular case ended up as a murder enquiry. Although, once his report was finally read, it was not a difficult case to solve. Although he meant well, the report writer was far too fond of the inner mysteries of the English dictionary.

The case would have gone down a lot better and would have received proper attention had he not given it the heading ‘Discombobulation by an Erudite Septuagenarian’.