12 Profoundly Awesome Short-Stories

by

David Peter Swan

Copyright © 2010 by David P Swan

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

without the express written permission of the publisher

except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

http://www.dpswanwriter.com

Contents

Dasein4

The Diary of a Lost Boy6

Beer and Buddhism8

Frankenstein’s Ubermensch12

Suckered15

The Great Santa Delusion20

Star Bucked25

Hojosan27

Running Away29

Shit Happens34

The Irelefunt39

Reverse43

Dasein

The clock tick-tocked around the clock face as Michael lay on his bed watching the thin black arm jump rigidly past the numbers. One. Two. Three. Michael was obsessed with time. Then his phone started to ring and he pulled himself up quickly till his feet were back on the ground. The clock tick-tocked while the mobile phoned shrilled in short bursts. Michael just stared at the phone watching the digitized name flash over a luminous back-light. It was Dasein calling him again. The clock tick-tocked while the mobile phone vibrated across the floor. Michael watched the vibrating phone slide moment by moment across the bedroom floor while the clock tick-tocked. He picked up the mobile phone and answered it.

‘Leave me alone will you. Just leave me alone.’

Dasein answered.

‘It’s been a while Michael. Time is up. You know I will find you. Meet me tonight under the bridge at midnight.’

Michael slammed the phone across the room and it smashed into a trillion pieces. And the trillion pieces smashed into Michael. Each single piece was a single piece of time. A milli-second. Or less. One piece lodged itself into Michael’s eye which allowed him to see closely that single piece of time. And the single piece of time said to him,

‘Dasein!’

Michael screamed and ran to the sink and washed the single piece of time out of his eye and put it to the side. He then stripped himself of all his belongings and started to remove all the other pieces of time that were embedded in his skin. He gathered them all together into his hands and walked into the room and placed them on the floor. Floods of tears started to run down his cheeks. Each tear was a piece of time. And knowing this made Michael even sadder. The tears of time dripped onto the shattered pieces of his modern mobile-phone and slowly he started to try and piece them all together again. And then the mobile phone started to ring again. And Michael stopped crying.

The shrill sounds sang from every piece of time while the clock tick-tocked on the bedroom wall. He couldn’t answer the call but he knew who was on the other end of that call. He knew the bridge and where he had to go. Michael stood up slowly and the ringing stopped. Michael walked out of the door and into the night. There was a full-moon in the sky. The moon was incredibly beautiful. Words could not describe how large and beautiful it was. Can you see the moon? Try and see it using your own imagination. While I continue to cut up more pieces of your time. As Michael looked up at the beautiful super-moon. Two hands like the hands of a clock started to appear and Michael stared to groan out loud.

‘Please Dasein. Stop this. You will drive me mad.’

The super-moon disappeared from the sky until all that was left was its reflection in the river. Michael looked at the reflection of the moon in the river and was confused by how it appeared more real than the one that had appeared in the sky. And this frightened Michael. So he walked faster and faster as his heart started to beat wildly. It pounded so hard that he could hear it pound inside his head. And each beat reminded him of time. Michael started to run to escape the sound. To escape time. But can a human-being ever be free from time? As Michael ran faster his heart pounded louder while time screamed wildly. He could see the bridge ahead and Daisen’s strange figure.

And that wry smile across his face.

Michael went into full sprint no longer caring about his heart. And then it started to rain. And he collapsed onto the floor before he got to the bridge, before he got to meet Dasein. Every drop of rain that fell around him was a piece of time. Every breath he breathed was a piece of time. Every time he looked at Dasein. Dasein looked at him. As Dasein walked closer. Michael’s breath got shorter and shorter. And then time fell away. From his mind. From his self. All Michael could see was the moon’s reflection in the river as Dasein walked closer towards him. And when Michael’s last breath was sung and the world was presented to him. Naked. Beyond space. Beyond time. Daisen spoke to him softly.

‘How can one truly be free in this world. When trapped by space and time?’

The Diary of a Lost Boy

It’s been two days since the world ended and I have yet to pluck up the courage go outside. I grabbed another can of baked beans from the stack and started to twirl the can opener around the edges. I grabbed two slices of bread from the mountain of bread that I had stashed in the corner of the room, and proceeded to butter the slices. I must admit, it wasn’t the best survival plan I had in mind but then again I didn’t have much time. As soon as the second sun appeared I knew we were fucked and while the rest of the media mocked the lunatics for preparing for doomsday I knew the shit really was about to hit the fan, so I just dashed to the shops and grabbed what I could.

Baked beans, white bread, butter and about twenty bananas. It would hardly keep me alive for two weeks let alone the rest of my life but I suppose I could always hunt for rabbits. If there were any rabbits or wildlife; or even nature. It had been a pretty humongous crash when the end did come. The entire foundations of the house shook until I thought it would all come crumbling down on me but I just kneeled and prayed and for some miraculous reason, the house stayed up. I checked my mobile phone but there was no signal, tried to turn the television on, but nothing. I knew I had to go outside and see if anyone else was out there but I was too afraid.

I sat there in my bed room eating my baked beans and counting the cans I had left. Fourteen. Fuck this, I thought, I need to check. I hadn’t even bothered opening the curtains because I didn’t want to see the bodies outside. I mean I heard their screams. Too many screams, like birds burning in a cage. Their screams pierced my ear drums, that, and the sound of the world ending; the crashing of mountains, and the crunching of metal and brick, watching the street lamps behind the curtains all falling over, and going out, one by one.

I got up and walked towards the curtain. Slowly I pulled the curtains back to allow the immensely burning sun swathe my body in bright yellow light. I held my hand up to my eyes. It was not possible to be shocked by what I saw because the mind had no way of comprehending what on earth it was looking at. It looked like I was staring at some surreal painting or had awoken in the midst of a spectacular sci-fi dream. The road outside my house looked as if it had been sawn off, and over the edge was just blue space as if staring at the sky. It looked like half the world had just dropped off.  There was my road. Then more blue sky and then nothing but empty space.  Europe had gone. Maybe half of Australia too.

I rushed to the door and opened it slowly. I walked outside and breathed in the fresh cool air. I stayed close to the door to stop me from falling over the edge. I looked further down the road but that had been sawn off too. It seemed so far that all that was left of the world was my house and say one or two metres of the earth in front of it. I stayed close to the door and needlessly tiptoed to the end of the house. Again all I could see was the sea blue sky and nothing else. I peeked round the corner and yet again I was confronted by the same thing and now the terror was beginning to settle down. All that was left of the whole planet was my house, and the small piece of earth that it seemed to be sitting on top of. I went round back where the ground was a little looser and sure enough. No lawn to mow, but masses of blue sky, and fuck all else. Getting down on my hands and knees I crawled towards the edges of the earth and peaked over. It looked like I was sitting on top of some kind of turnip and all I could see was the V shaped earth mound tipping downwards. I headed back into the house to try and calm myself down. No people left. No food. No earth. What the fuck was I to do? I thought I would wait till night fall to see how I felt. Not that there was a night fall because there was no longer an earth mass to block out the sun as it moved away from me. I just saw the sun sitting there all night long. I went to sleep that night dreaming of all my relatives and loved ones, wondering where they were.

The next day I got up and packed my rucksack. I took four cans of baked beans with me a loaf of bread, two bananas and a selection of chocolates. I left the toffee one, I never did like toffee ones, and opened my front door. It was a good day as it would always be. I zipped up my jacket to the neck and put my gloves on. I walked towards the edge of the earth and just jumped off.

At first it was terrifying but then became exhilarating as my body acclimatised to the pressure and air battering my body. The sound of air passing by my ears was like being close to a jet engine. After accepting my descent into emptiness I fell into a peaceful slumber, outstretching my arms like a bird. I found if I tipped my hips I could change direction, and did so. Whoosh! Then the other way. Whoosh! I did three flips round and round upside down screaming with joy. This was the most elated I had ever felt since the world had ended.

I noticed the sky becoming darker and screwed my eyes into the distance to look harder. It looked as if I was approaching outer space so I decided to pull out an extra jumper I had brought with me to keep me warm. The cans of baked beans fell out of my bag and whizzed back home towards my house. The sky around me became even darker as I stared ahead into space. My descent moved from a hurtle, into a lighter free fall, as all around me became darkness. I flipped round to see the blueness disappear along with my home and the sun which became just another star.

In space I felt quite alone, even contemplative, as I floated in the nothingness. I wasn’t too sure of my direction, and had nothing to check my bearings with. It was more difficult to flip and twist like I could when hurtling through the atmosphere, so I imagined myself walking  to nowhere, as if on a Sunday stroll, out for a casual walk, in deep space. Soon I noticed a silver fiery edge appearing in the distance as if it the universe had been cut in half, and then I noticed what appeared to be the bodies of other human beings. Were they dead or alive?

I changed my direction and floated towards some of the bodies. As I approached them I was shocked to see their faces smiling at me. I reached forward to grab their hands and we joined together like the space shuttle docking in outer space.

‘What the hell is happening?’ I asked.

‘We don’t know. We have all been falling since the earth ended but we are not sure where we are heading?’ They said.

I was aware of a multitude of other people all free floating around me. It wasn’t just one or two people but a thousand, hell, maybe a million or more. I dipped down into the masses of people that only continued to grow and grow. It seemed like the whole planet was here in outer space. All six billion of us were heading towards the edges of the universe. The silver thin line that looked like the end of the universe was turning into a dazzling silver flame, an insane streak of creativity that blazed a trail across our eyes. We all moved our hands and legs in unison. Our direction and intentions synchronized. All of humanity was on the move. Towards a new dawn.

Beer and Buddhism

They say that smoking is no longer cool. A guaranteed way to usher you along life’s path to an early grave, but in London you have no choice. You breathe in the smoke of the obnoxious car fumes every day. Gulp in huge bowls of the stuff. If it’s not the smells from the bullying traffic. It’s the way too personal smell of other people when being stuffed along the tube line at some unceremonious hour in the morning. So as you can imagine it was with great relief that I had received a letter from my friend Mara who had recently taken robes as a Tibetan Nun.

She had been tucked away in a monastery hidden amongst the foothills of some nondescript Scottish town. I had decided that it was a good excuse to get out of London and visit my spiritual friend, hoping that some of her accumulated goodness would wash away the filth from this belching town. It was convenient for me that this monastery, in the heart of Scotland, was just a direct train ride from London. This was my chance to stock up on some good karma. Revive my work ethic and make amends for the wrongs that I had done in this unforgiving city. Before I could say, ‘Avalokitesvara’, which I couldn’t, I was off on a train towards the foothills of Dumfries.

After a few hours of pre-packed sandwiches and over expensive, non- branded coffee. I arrived in the small town of Lockerbie. Without thinking I was expanding my lungs to Superman size as my body greedily took in as much real air as possible. Real air. Fresh air. Scottish air. I drank in my surroundings and noted the lack of skyscrapers allowing me a reasonable panoramic vision of the area. Beautiful. I still had one more leg of the journey to go until I reached a small town called Eskdalemuir which was where the monastery was located. I hailed a cab and settled into the passenger seat allowing the view of the low slung hills of Dumfries to decrease the erratic waves of my city mind. The countryside was dotted with cows, sheep and small cottages. It was the kind of life I would view through Sunday night television programmes. Dream places I would never think of going to. I leaned my head back and smiled to myself feeling secure in the arms of mother-nature once again. The taxi driver was one hundred percent Scottish. Complete with an accent thicker than my winter gloves.

‘Where ya goin?’ ‘Samye Ling. It’s a Tibetan Buddhist place along the road. Have you been there?’ ‘Oh aye sure. It’s thon wee Buddhist place. Karma an all that. It’s a nice place,’ he said, and returned to his driving.

A nice place I thought. The word ‘nice’ would get you a suspicious look in the city but nice was good enough out here far away from the self-centred competitive mentality of London. He continued along the roads at an uncomfortable speed as I tried my best to empty my mind of work. Karma. What actually was karma? It was funny to think that I had spent years sitting in a Zen centre in the middle of London and somehow had managed to escape any serious teachings on Buddhism.

Karma. Action. The ripening of seeds that would have been sown, not just in this life time, but the many lives we have had before. I wondered for a while about my previous lives. Indulged myself with delusions of some grand Egyptian Pharaoh, and then settled for a marauding Saxon Viking. As I pondered on the ever more elaborate and glamorous lives that I could have lived, my eyes caught the fluttering of multi-coloured flags. Bright colours of red, white, blue, and yellow were flapping from the washing lines outside of the small cottages that lined the road we travelled along. The flags were flying not just from the washing lines but the houses and trees. Just as we turned a corner I could see a large golden turret sprouting into the skyline. I suddenly felt I had been transported into some dream land with all these colours shouting at me. The golden turret was part of a white monument known as a stupa. A ceremonial building used for worship.

Things almost took on a more surreal shape as more gold from the Tibetan Temple rose into view fighting space with the blue sky, and white clouds.

I was reminded of the first stanza of Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s ‘Kubla Kahn’ as the taxi turned into the gates of Samye Ling and parked up.

‘In Xanadu did Kubla Kahn a stately pleasure dome decree.’

This miracle dream was rudely interrupted by a not uncommon London phrase.

‘Oi Dave you asshole.’

I turned to see my friend Mara’s bald head and welcoming smile beam at me through the taxi window. I got out and retrieved my suitcase paying the taxi driver for his service. ‘Are you allowed to swear? Aren’t you supposed to be holy?’ I enquired jokingly.

‘I’m struggling. I’ve only been in robes for four weeks. I need to practice more.’ I went to give her a hug but she pulled back. ‘Oh so you can swear like a trooper but I can’t hug you. Nice one Mara.’ She looked at me funny.

‘I’m not Mara anymore. Sorry if I sound a bit anal but can you please call me Ani Padma.’

‘Ani Padma. Bloody hell. No problems Ani. Let’s drop my stuff of and go for a beer.’

‘Dave there’s no intoxicants here. This isn’t the world of Zen where all is allowed. You need to refrain from a few things when living on, or near a Monastery.’

My heart sank as Ani Padma led me to the Tibetan Café. Clearly there were some big differences between the world of Zen and Tibetan Buddhism. While in the Café I was introduced into a very different crowd of people from the ones I knew at work. They used names such as Planet, Ranjung and Sky. They were all well-meaning modern-day hippies who lived and breathed the organic lifestyle. They were a million miles away from the friends I’d spend a Saturday night in with; all engrossed in popular game shows, a medium Chicken Tikka, and a couple of beers. This lot had spent years following the Buddha, travelling to India and Nepal for Buddhist teachings.

After a couple of cappuccinos I was given the A – Z of Tibetan Buddhism. In Zen it’s simple. You sit on your ass and one day you’ll become enlightened, or maybe one lifetime.

Tibetan Buddhism uses all things on the path to enlightenment; sight, sound, and colours are utilized to support and transform the thoughts and emotions of the mind from negative to positive. While in Zen you have Zazen. In Tibetan Buddhism you have mantras, visualizations, mudras, and prayers. Anything to get you there. After way too much coffee I joined my friend for a walk around the courtyard and into the main shrine room. I was immediately struck by the riot, splendour, and magnificence of all the colours that were displayed inside the shrine room. I watched as my friend fell to her knees and then spread her arms out in front of herself and then came back up again.

‘What’s that for?’ I asked. Almost whispering. But she hadn’t finished and kneeled down a further two times.

‘They’re called prostrations. The same as bowing. It’s about offering respect to the Buddha, but ultimately about bowing to the Buddha within yourself.’

I considered doing a few myself but was conscious of ruining my clothes. I continued to look around the shrine room while Ani continued with her duties. The beauty of the place made me feel uneasy. It wasn’t just the two foot high golden statue of the Buddha that put me in awe. There were hundreds of other smaller golden Buddha’s encased in glass, either side of the main statue.

I imagined myself bowing to all of them. Saying hello in my own way. I was surrounded by brightly coloured religious paintings known as Thangkas. They depicted a variety of deities that to me appeared quite terrifying. Some had four arms, and more. Some wielded swords. Some deities faces wouldn’t look to out of place on Halloween night. I was reassured by Ani Padma that the deities, some wrathful, some benevolent, were just manifestations of my own fears and poisons. They were here to help us on our path. I settled on one deity who appeared more cheerful. His name was Chenrezig. He only had four arms. He was the Lord of Compassion. Four arms I could handle.

Whatever my beliefs or motivations for coming here, Samye Ling had an air of goodness about the place. People came from all backgrounds. Some to learn Buddhism. Some just to escape from the stresses of their busy lives. It had the fresh air from the countryside and the fresh effort from the people who came here trying to understand themselves better. I settled in for the next few days taking walks around the grounds, and gulping up the fresh air. When you live in London you don’t realize how reluctant you are to fully stretch your lungs out. I had decided to stay a few days extra to gather my thoughts and try abstaining from beer for as long as I could. I sat in the café drinking my double mocha cappuccino with cream spiralling upwards, and a chocolate flake to the side. In no way was my increase in sugar relative to the decrease in alcohol. I think it was more boredom and the lack of everyday distractions that drove me to ever fancier and elaborate coffee drinks. I wondered briefly whether I could obtain nirvana just by increasing my sugar intake.

I had been attempting to read a book on the nature of emptiness and my head was aching. Of course I should have gone for something more straight forward ‘an Introduction to’ etc but just the name ‘emptiness’ drew me in with its esoteric allusions. It’s always nice to have something deep and profound to wave around while drinking coffee but if I was honest I was struggling with the introduction, let alone the chapters on the non-existence of the self. Lucky for me a more experienced Buddhist beside me noticed my confusion and came to my rescue.

‘That’s a fantastic book you have there. So lucid in its explanation on the meaning of emptiness,’ he said.

I smiled knowingly. Doing my best to hide my ignorance. I reached for the chocolate flake to take away the dull pain in my head. It looked like I was about to be enlightened by North London’s answer to Deepak Chopra. He leaned towards me as if he was about to reveal the mysteries of the universe.

‘Although the cup exists. It’s actually empty. What we mean by empty is the concept of the cup exists only in the mind, and the object that you see is made of many things which are dependent on each other.’

His voice trailed off as he started to look as doubtful as I did about his explanation. We both looked at the cup. I held its firmness. Observed its round curve. The fact that it was made of a base, and a handle, and on looking inside, he was right. It was empty. To save us any further embarrassment I ordered another deluxe chocolate drink, and it was very full indeed. After another super choc drink arrived my teacher had felt rejuvenated enough to try a further explanation.

‘It’s like this. We see the cup as a whole cup. An individual thing, much as we see ourselves as whole and separate, but in fact we are made up of many different things. All dependent on each other.’

We both stared at each other believing we had both grasped something quite important. This was actually the most focused I had been since I last took cocaine. He continued unabashed.

‘The cup is made of a handle, a base, the wall; much in the same way that you are made of your legs, arms, body, bones, blood, emotions, and thoughts. Together we see them as one whole thing when in fact they are many things taken as a whole. Emptiness on a relative level is seeing that the cup like yourself, while appearing whole. Is actually empty of these things.’

I stared at him quite stunned as my mind tried to understand what he was talking about. The best I could do was imagine myself as Mr Potato Head from Toy Story and each of the plastic parts falling of me one by one. I excused myself and went outside for some fresh air. My mind was being bombarded with teachings. To many teachings. Everything is empty but it’s not. Reality is just an illusion. Your ‘self’ exists but it doesn’t exist. Nothing was clear to me in this Buddhist world. Either things were real or they were not. I thought it was best to remove myself from the monastery for a while and head to a place no Tibetan monk could find me. The pub. I heard a rumour of a pub existing a couple of miles away, so when the rest of the camp was involved in meal time prayers. I jumped ship and headed to the waterhole.

‘A pint of lager please.’ I asked. Plonking myself on the bar stool. I watched the golden syrupy liquid bubble its way to the top. I felt myself refill just as quickly as the glass did.

‘Are you here on holiday sir?’ asked the barman. ‘Sure. Just staying at the local Buddhist place for a while,’ I said. ‘Oh yes I know it very well. In fact I’ve been reading this book about The Two Truths.’ ‘What do you mean two truths?’ ‘You mean they haven’t told you about the absolute and the relative truths?’

I excused myself very quickly before I was about to be enlightened again. I sat in the alcove studying my pint. Noticing the glass. Its roundness. The fact that it tasted so good. Then ordered a second and gave myself a pat on the back for abstaining for so long.

Frankenstein’s Ubermensch

A whiplash of dark blue lightning from the conductor burst into the veins of the human body, as if it had been stolen from the Gods themselves. The flesh rippled like subtle waves shimmering across a steady ocean. Dr Frankenstein pressed the button that would start the process of genetic manipulation. He injected the serum into the human body then waited as the flesh and bone of the creature convulsed, contorted and slowly formed into a new being. Bone formed from tissue, blood formed around the bones and through the veins that grew, like unnatural vine leaves creeping up the outside walls of a dead man’s house.

Dr Frankenstein went back to his notes and continued to scribble away at his thesis. Soon he would have finished his project and created the first ‘supreme being’. A man of physical and intellectual perfection, with a brain created using the DNA from some of the greatest minds history had ever known. In the background the computers fell silent and Dr Frankenstein moved towards the incubator to look at his creature. The molecular transformation was now complete and the body lay lifeless inside the casket. He turned on the electric current to a low amp and then started the computer programme. The software would download every bit of knowledge from the greatest works of science, art and language into the brain.

Dr Frankenstein watched in awe as the programme ran and the electrical currents pulsed through the creature’s brain and into its heart. He noticed the fingers slightly twitching, as if playing a piano recital. It would be another two days before the body would be fully energized and he could wake this man. Frankenstein walked across the yard to his cottage to see what his wife Mary was doing. Mary had been by his side since the beginning but had turned away from him as soon as his project had started to near completion. Her beliefs held her back from encouraging her husband in his pursuits.

As she reminded him often ‘God had already sent his one and only perfect son, who are you to do God’s work?’ But Michael was convinced that he ‘was’ doing God’s work, and believed his man would be able to help the world. Mary was busy laying out the plates for lunch. Michael sat down, sensing the atmosphere. He got up to help Mary finish laying the table.

‘He’s nearly finished Mary and so far all the tests have come back positive.’ Mary laid down the last plate and sat down herself.

 

‘He? I love you Michael, but what you are creating cannot be called a ‘he’ in any normal sense. This creature, you so stubbornly created, despite the warning from your own colleagues. Is an aberration of nature. Some kind of genetically modified animal, dare I say, beast.’

Michael looked crushed. He loved his wife very much and wished she could see the beauty of what he was doing.

‘I understand that this man was not born in the natural way but I still feel he is God’s work, in as much a way that I, and we, are born of God, so surely what I produce is also from God. Dare I say inspired.’ There was just a dash of smugness smudged across Michael’s face.

They both started to eat in silence while the rain outside the cottage fell in fist loads from an angry sky. Michael’s thoughts were on his creation and the computer programme downloading every sonnet, every syllable and every calculation into its brain. His creation would not exactly lift whole buildings, but its beauty, grace and intellect, may well lift the world and all its people.

‘It’s always a tough call knowing whether you are doing God’s work, or the devils. Only time will tell.’ Said Mary.

Mary finished eating her dinner and got up to leave the table. Michael sat there chewing on her words. He remembered some of his earlier experiments at trying to modify the structure of his own brain to increase his own intelligence, but it only resulted in him spending six months in a psychiatric ward.

He had taken a sample of blood from his own arm and then injected his own semen into one of Mary’s eggs that he had unscrupulously taken from their failed attempts to induce a child of their own. This would literally mean that the man being born soon, would be their son.

Two days had passed and Michael had dared not take a look into the laboratory. The machine and programme had stopped running. The storm outside had gone away, and the sun offered a partial glance across the blankets of grass, that were the endless fields outside his window. He reluctantly opened the door to the laboratory and walked over to the incubator. He slowly pulled back the glass casing and a light smoke escaped revealing the face of a young man.

His forehead was smooth. His skin was white, almost too white, like a gypsum alabaster God statue, and his eyes shockingly blue and wide open. They just stared ahead at the ceiling not blinking. His hair was blonde. Michael felt sick. He moved closer to the man’s body and then touched its arm. It felt cold and wet like a snake. Still the creature did not blink but just kept staring ahead. Michael could see its chest rising and falling slowly. Its heart beat was faint but discernible above the server’s harmonic hum.

 

‘Hello.’ Said Michael, and Michael stood back as if the creature was about to jump out at him. Slowly the man’s mouth started to move as if it wished to say something. Michael quickly grabbed the glass and straw and did his best to feed the man some water. It drank in greedily as if it needed something more real to kick start the final awakening. Suddenly it sat up and gasped, and Michael took two steps back. The man tried to move his lips but no sound came out, just a faint rasp.

‘Can you hear me?’ Said Michael.

The man turned to Michael.

‘I need more water. I need meat.’

Michael fetched another glass of water, and from the fridge, some freshly prepared chicken, with fresh fruits and vegetables. He handed the plate to the man and the man sat and took the plate. He started to eat hungrily from the plate with his hands and fingers. Michael was frozen to the spot.

A mixture of raw sickness and excitement was running through his guts and veins. He couldn’t believe he was watching his creation sitting up and eating.

‘I knew you would be hungry so I prepared the food.’ The man looked at Michael.

‘Who am I, and where am I?’

This caught Michael by surprise. He had been so consumed with creating his creature that he had forgotten to give it a name. He plucked one instantly from the back of his mind.

‘Your name is Khristian. And you are in Oxford.’ The man seemed to think about it for a while then looked outside the window as if to confirm his location.

‘Oxford is in England. Home to a famous college called Christchurch. Christ was a great man but just a man nonetheless.’ At this point a butterfly flew in from the window and landed on the table beside Khristtian. Dr Frankenstein noted the butterfly with marvel, considering it a beautiful sign until Khristtian slammed his hand down on top of the insect causing Michael to jump back.

‘You can’t kill one of God’s beautiful creatures, surely you know that?’

Khristian wiped the remnants of the butterfly from off his hands onto a handkerchief and got up to wash his hands at the sink. Forgetting the man’s nakedness, Michael grabbed the clothes he had bought for him, and placed them beside the sink.

‘Please put some clothes on and I’ll show you your room. But you don’t go around killing things Kristian, surely you understand that?’

Kristian started to put the clothes on that Michael had bought for him. He took another glass of water while still thinking about Michael’s last question.

‘You kill other human beings. Don’t you?’

‘Well, no, not intentionally. Some die in accidents. Some people die in wars, but we don’t go out of our way to kill people deliberately, and that is the difference.’

‘What about the Jews?’ Michael looked at this creature he had created and sweat was starting form on the back of his neck.

‘The Jews were massacred by a mad man. Killed by one man’s false belief in a perfect race. He was very wrong in what he did.’

‘But if they were not perfect beings then why allow them to exist? Surely it is ok to wipe out the things that are broken. The things that we deem not beautiful.’

Michael was now terrified by what he was hearing but knew he would be able to train his creature to understand empathy and compassion. He could see why Kristian was acting like this and knew he would have to work hard over the next few months to shape his creation into the perfect being, not just a cold human being. He tapped Kristian on the shoulder and ushered him towards his room.

‘It is not for us to make those decisions. We leave that up to God.’ Michael sat the man down on the bed, and Kristian lay down on the bed and started to yawn. ‘Am I not a God?’ asked Kristian.

Dr Frankenstein laughed.

‘No you are not a god but in a way created by God.’ Michael tucked Kristian into bed as if he were his own son. He felt a strong affection and sense of duty to this man as if he were a small child. He turned the light off and closed the door. Kristian stared ahead of him looking into the side table mirror. Michael closed the door. Kristian whispered to himself.

‘Then why do I feel like one.’

Suckered

At last Planet Earth had communicated with alien life. The signal was coming from a planet not so very far away in the galaxy next door, much to the surprise of the scientific community. It seemed they had been using the wrong kind of analysis tools. Apparently the alien life forms had been shouting, ‘We’re over here,’ for quite some time, and eventually the aliens decided that they would have to make the first move.

At the NORAD control centre deep in the Cheyenne mountains things were getting quite heated.

‘What the hell do you mean don’t know where?’ barked the president. Jim nervously shuffled the data reports in his hands.

‘We’ve checked the data and tried to translate the best we can, and so far we only have a date and time, and the words: we will come to you.’

The president was someone to be feared. I mean he was fearful enough in the movie Terminator but in real life he was bigger and used more words.

‘How the hell can we prepare for their arrival when we don’t know where they will land?’ said the president. Jim went over to his screen and quickly shuffled his UFO-shaped mouse.

‘Well, we did manage to unscramble some of the data and worked out a rough area.’ Jim pointed to the map on the screen and the area known as the Mojave Desert. President Schwarzenegger leaned into the screen.

‘The desert in three weeks. Do we know anything about these aliens? How will they be coming? I mean I take it they won’t be coming by bicycle.’ He grumbled.

‘Not unless it was an intergalactic bike.’ Said Jim smiling. He immediately realised he had said the wrong thing. You didn’t want to mess with the most aggressive president ever, especially one who was on the brink of launching attacks on China and Iran. The president looked Jim squarely in the eyes.

‘Any foreign object bigger or more powerful, than anything the USA has got, must either be on our side, or shot down.’

Jim tried to plead with the president.

‘I can assure you Mr. President these creatures are highly evolved. We’ve translated as much data as we can. It seems they want to bring a message of peace.’

The president was busy checking his pecks in the window’s reflection.

‘Peace? Yeah sure. We’ll give them some peace. A piece of my ass.’

And the president started to walk out of the compound. Before he closed the door he turned to Jim and said, ‘I’ll be back,’ and then smiled and walked out the door.

Jim smiled briefly then immediately admonished himself. How the hell can one man go so far with such a dumb catchphrase? It was twisted around for his poster campaign, ‘I Am Back’ for the presidential election, and a few million Arni fans could not resist it. Jim mumbled his best Arni impression whilst analysing the rest of the data.

‘I got some peace for you. A piece of my ass, hur hur hur.’

Meanwhile, in a not-so-distant galaxy on a not-so-distant planet in fact right behind our own but just on a different vibration. Aliens were preparing a surprise visit.

The Lizurethians used to be a violent race just like human beings but that was all in the past, about a thousand years in the past. As well as evolving technology they also evolved their minds. They used control of sound and mind to travel, and as highly evolved beings knew that you didn’t have to bend space and time to travel, but just pop in and out on a different vibration.

They also looked like lizards, which was the main reason for never visiting Earth. I mean if human beings had difficulty in dealing with their own people because of colour. How the hell would they handle a six-foot, highly evolved, intelligent lizard? The high councillor Mara rubbed her smooth silky scales with cream.

‘Gosh don’t you just hate dry skin,’ she said. Her attendee Malcolm, a council adviser, looked on in admiration.

‘You are a true example to all Lizurethians, Ma’am. You make me proud.’

Despite looking like lizards, the Lizurethians had a strong female shape, even the men. It was a bit like crossing an Anaconda with Beyonce Knowles. Mara was powerful, sexy, and very strong. She held up her three-fingered hand to Malcolm. The palm of her hand was covered with mini suckers which opened giving a slightly mild sigh.

‘Oh God. No thanks Mara. If you don’t mind I need to keep my mind focused at the moment.’ Mara moved closer to Malcolm.

‘Oh come on, Malcolm. Just a small orgasm before we take the journey. You know you like it.’

The Lizurethians made love quite a lot. Unlike like us humans, their erogenous zones were placed in the palm of their hands. When put together, their juices flowed, and it was said that the experience had the ability to render the male lover incapacitated for several weeks. Albeit several weeks in the most heightened orgasmic state of ecstasy.

The Lizurethians hadn’t always been this way. Much like humanity they too were involved in petty aggressive wars with themselves, until what they termed, the summer of love, occurred.

This was like the sixties on Earth only this time it was experienced by the entire race of Lizurethians. Imagine one whole planet involved in non-stop lovemaking for ten years. After that they had completely transformed into a loving peaceful race of lizards. Mara took her seat in front of the other councillors with Malcolm by her side.

‘Now what’s the update on the human problem,’ she asked.

‘Well it seems they are on the brink of total annihilation. We can see a mass of troops in two main areas and we have decoded all signals from their governments. It seems they are ready to launch nuclear strikes,’ spoke one of the councillors. An elder lizard, Damas, spoke up.

‘Let them destroy themselves then we can go in and take over. One view of our giant ships and lizard eyes, and they will freak out. It will be a piece of cake.’

‘If they launch the weapons they will destroy the planet and its natural resources and we will be left without water for millions of miles. No other planet within this galaxy is capable of sustaining life with all the right nutrients,’ said Malcolm.

The Lizurethians had been popping in and out of Earth for thousands of years. They used Earth’s water supplies to replenish their own bodily systems. And dare I say steal the odd dress from the latest fashion line.

‘You mean we should neutralise them?’ spoke Mara. An elder lizard stood up.

‘There seems to be a handful of men with an overabundance of male testosterone running that planet into ruin. I believe a quick injection from our suckers will realign their behaviour, and bring the rest of the planet to a more peaceful state of being.’

Mara stood up looking at the high councillors.

‘So let’s just get this straight. You want me to go to Earth and screw the most powerful men on their planet. In the name of peace?’

The councillors remained silent as Mara headed out the door towards the sound chamber.

‘Well those suckers better be ready for these suckers, because I am in the mood for love.’ She sashayed out of the room and started to prepare herself for travel to another dimension.

In the sky above the desert, jets flew past, and helicopters whirred above the recently erected buildings. Packs of soldiers armed with the latest weaponry drove around the base shouting their military songs. The USA was ready to greet the alien visitors on their own terms.

In the command control centre Jim was scanning the radio waves for any signs or warnings of their imminent arrival. The president stood by the window looking out into the desert puffing on his cigar.

‘I wonder what their ship will be like.’ He turned and walked towards Jim.

‘Did you see Independence Day. I mean I didn’t like Will Smith’s rubber performance but that was some spaceship.’

Jim just stared at the president in disbelief. He tweaked a few numbers and ran the algorithms again.

‘They could arrive by a different means other than a gigantic spaceship. They could just appear in some kind of vessel out of nowhere.’

The president looked at him. ‘I’m sure that if they are highly evolved beings then they will arrive in a highly evolved manner.’

The time was getting closer. They were due to arrive at 15:00 hours. Everyone in the command room was busy doing something, but in reality no one really had a clue what to expect. Troops outside were positioned around the stadium with their weapons pointing in the air. Anti-aircraft guns pointed menacingly towards an empty sky. The president was thinking exactly the same thing as everyone else. What the hell will happen next?

At that point out of a very clear sky a visible crack of lightning struck across the sky frightening everyone in the command centre.

‘I thought the weather reports were supposed to be clear today,’ shouted one technician.

‘Check the weather maps again. That looks like one mother of a cloud coming up,’ said another pointing in the distance. People started to look out of the window at what appeared to be a very dark cloud with flashes of light bursting out of it, heading towards the stadium.

‘Holy shit this must be the mother ship,’ said Jim as cameras around him started to capture the momentous event.

Outside, soldiers aimed their weapons, and helicopters started to move towards the cloud. Everyone in the room was becoming visibly nervous. The atmosphere became warm and sticky as if they were in the tropics. The cloud moved closer until it hovered above the stadium. The lights inside grew brighter and people could start to hear a deep, booming sound.

AAUUMM.

You could feel the vibration of the sound through your entire body. Soldiers were given orders to get ready to fire into the cloud but no one could move. It was as if they were all being held in place by some invisible force. The soldiers just stood there grinning while the cloud drew closer. The lights flashed faster and the sound grew deeper. AUM! came the sound again, deeper and louder.

For a brief second Jim wondered whether they were about to be attacked by the Hare Krishnas. Suddenly it stopped. Everyone in the command centre rushed to the window to catch a glimpse of the mother ship but nothing was there. The cloud had gone. The sound had gone. The soldiers all pointed their guns towards nothing. Jim checked the signals but all signals were dead and then behind him he heard.

‘Well, hello boys.’ It was Mara.

The president and everyone else turned round to be confronted by what appeared to be a very tall and sexy lizard-like being, in a slinky figure-hugging dress. Everybody was completely numbed with shock. Their mouths were wide open and they were all thinking the same thing, even the girls. She’s quite cute.

‘So, which one of you boys is the president?’

The president still in shock managed to lift his hand and said, ‘Hi. I’m the president. Do you come in peace?’

Mara swayed towards the president. The security team thought about moving towards the president to protect him, but they were completely numb.

‘Of course I come in peace. We Lizurethians have been living in peace for a thousand years. We are all about peace. I believe you human beings tend to greet with a hand shake.’

The president stared into Mara’s snake-like eyes utterly hypnotised. She held out her hand to greet him and those baby suckers opened up and started to sigh. She gripped the president’s hand.

At first he let out an ‘ah’, and then he let out an ‘ooh’, followed by another ‘ahh’, and then one long sigh, and a really big smile. The president crumbled to the floor where he lay for a few minutes and after he had recovered; just wasn’t himself anymore. He was all about peace, love, harmony and you know what.

It wasn’t too long before the Lizurethians were popping in and out all over Earth. Previously brutal dictators suddenly demanded peace.

Greedy CEOs and Hedge Fund Managers suggested a fairer means of distributing wealth, even the Chinese Premier was seen running around in a multi-coloured Hawaiian shirt demanding that everyone be free.

It seemed the whole planet had changed overnight. All these once powerful people. Suckered into peace.

The Great Santa Delusion

The children of Finger Moon village were an excited lot. Historically they were nervous anyway because they always had a sense of expectation about themselves that had been encouraged by their parents, and their parents’ parents, throughout time and space; to believe that one day in the future a mystical hero would come from the skies to save all of humanity. To celebrate this future-coming another myth had been created. A kind of semi-myth in which the children had been told that once a year a Santa would arrive, and deliver gifts to all of the children as a kind of run up to the main event. This spiritual gift bearer flew through the skies on a sledge made from oak wood pulled by reindeer’s and would somehow magically deliver all the gifts that the children had requested. As long as their behaviour had been exemplary throughout the year. This parable was similar to the main myth, just swap gifts for fish, reindeers for angels. And a chariot instead of a sledge.

It was this one particular year when a young girl called Emily was approaching her eighth birthday that an unscrupulous older child told her something that shook her belief system to the ground.

‘There is no such thing as Santa.’

Emily turned to Paul. Who appeared a very rational and grounded fellow and slapped him hard across the cheek. She then went home with Paul’s words whistling around her mind. No Santa? Parents who lie? This could not be. But as it was the last night before Christmas Day. Emily was about to put the theory to test.

‘Did you leave a carrot for the reindeer and some milk for Santa?’ asked her Mother.

‘Yes Mother,’ said Emily who understandably was a little bit tetchy.

Emily placed the milk and carrot beside the chimney as she had done every year since she had been born. Only this time she felt like a prize chump.

‘Oh I hope you have been a good girl this year. Otherwise Santa will not bring you any gifts. Have you been a good girl?’ said her overbearing and somewhat dominant father figure.

‘Yes Father you know I have. I mowed the lawn. Cleaned the dishes each Sunday, and washed your car till the hubcaps sang.’

Emily went upstairs to bed trying her best to hold that grin. Emily’s Mother tucked her into bed and kissed her on the cheek and said good night. Naturally Emily was unable to sleep. Deep down in her heart she hoped that Paul was wrong. All her life she had believed wholeheartedly in the Santa story. It underpinned how she acted as a person throughout the year and gave her faith in the world knowing that however dark things got there would always be Santa to rely on.

A few minutes later the door opened and Emily quickly spun round and pretended to be asleep. Her worse nightmare was about to come true as she saw her parents tip- toe into her bedroom. She watched them as they carried in the gifts and placed them at the feet of her bed. Her heart beat fast and loud as she witnessed the greatest deception she had ever known. Just as they were tip toeing out of the bed room Emily could contain herself no more and threw the covers from her bed and jumped out onto the floor.

‘Mum. Dad. What the hell is going on here?’

Her parents froze on the spot.

‘There is no Santa,’ said Emily forcefully towards her parents.

‘Now my little darling. We are Santa’s helpers. Now just you go to sleep.’

‘If you are his helpers then you should be tried for aiding and abetting a known felon.’

Her parents stepped back and this time her Father became angry.

‘I’m sorry it had to be this way but it’s just a little game of imagination. It brings joy into our lives and it’s just a little lie. What’s the harm in that. Now get to bed.’

He shouted the last bit forcefully and Emily was reminded of her place as a child in this family.

The next day at the breakfast table there was complete silence. After Christmas Emily tried to focus on her studies but she was fuelled with hatred for the adults that were teaching her. If it was a lie then how did she know that what they were teaching her was the truth? The break time bell sounded and Emily decided to do something radical. She grabbed a soap box from the corner of the playground and stood on top of it.

‘All the children please gather around. I have something important to say.’

The children started to form around Emily. She then recalled the story of the last few days and told them all about the lie which didn’t go down so well.

‘You’re lying. I got all the gifts I wanted this year. And the carrot and the milk were gone by the morning,’ said one kid.

‘What about the gifts under the bed or in the living room? They just appear over night by magic don’t they.’

Some of the children were becoming distressed and a few were in tears. They couldn’t believe what they were hearing. A teacher had spotted the crowd and came closer to inspect. Maybe she sensed rebellion in the air.

‘How do we know you are telling the truth?’ Asked one brave child.

‘Go home. Look for the receipts. Confront your parents.’

During the day and the week word spread about the Santa delusion.

Hundreds and thousands of young children were confronting their parents about the great deception and then bursting into tears. The balloon was popped. The dream dead. And Emily still was restless about the situation. That night she decided to speak to her parents. One on one. The atmosphere was tense round the kitchen table.

‘Now about this Santa thing. Tell me the whole story.’

Her parents seemed perplexed. Emily had assumed the role of a film-noire detective character and was enjoying grilling her parents.

‘Well you know. It’s pretty straight-forward,’ said her Father.

‘Once a year Santa delivers gifts to all the children of the world.’

‘From where?’

‘The North Pole.’

‘Where exactly is the North Pole?’

Her Father sheepishly looked at Emily’s Mother who seemed as sketchy as a mouse with its nose in the refrigerator.

‘I think It’s near Iceland, or is it Finland?’ said her Mother.

‘You mean you’re not even sure?’

‘Well that’s the point of a myth. Everyone is really unsure about the facts but as long as a rough narrative is formed, people are content. And usually don’t bother questioning the story.’

Her Father looked away. The enormity and ridiculousness of the lie was now starting to bare down on his shoulders.

‘That’s really about it Emily. We are so sorry about this. It’s just how things are on this planet. Her parents shuffled nervously in their chairs. There was a painful pause while Emily contemplated her next action.

‘I want you to lend me your credit card.’

They both looked at each other.

‘What for?’

‘I’ve decided to go to the North Pole and see for myself.’

‘Of course there is nothing there. It’s just a myth.’

‘I know but when one wishes to verify the facts. It’s best to go and check them out for yourself. Direct experience trumps hearsay every time. Wouldn’t you say?’

Her Father handed over his credit card to Emily and she accepted it as a form of recompense. She got up from the table and went upstairs to plan her journey to the North Pole. A journey to seek the truth. And end this farce once and for all.

Children were amazed at how brave she was at standing up to her parents and started to stand up to them themselves. They had decided that they wanted to join Emily on the adventure to the North Pole. Within a week all the children of the village and had decided to go and the shops had run out of thick woolly socks, duffel coats and maps.

The parents had gathered at the airport to see them off. They held back the tears and also held a strange kind of hope. They too had never forgotten about Santa and even though they knew it to be highly unlikely, wished deep down that the children would bring something back with them.

The plane journey flew by quicker than the story-line, but with so little patience in the author, and a story-arc with less bend than David Beckham, things had to move quickly.

After the plane had landed. The kids stood outside the airport with all their belongings. Everyone was looking towards Emily for guidance and leadership. Emily didn’t have a clue what to do next so she decided to look as if she did have a clue and walked over to a security guard to ask a question.

‘Excuse me sir. Do you speak English?’

‘Ja. For sure. English I speak.’

‘We want to go to the North Pole.’

The security guard looked at Emily with a look of pity in his eyes.

‘You know there’s nothing there.’

‘I know but it’s nice to check things out for yourself.’

‘Nobody goes to the North Pole anymore. Not since Neitzsche famously declared that Santa was dead.’

‘Who is Neitzsche?’

‘Oh. Just some crazy old fool.’

‘But if you insist on going. There is an old bus that has been out of service for a few years. You can take that if you wish.’

The security guard took Emily round the corner to an old yellow school bus covered in dust. Emily looked at the front of the bus which was more rust than yellow. More dirt than clean.

With the help of the security guard they pulled the bus door open and went inside. Emily went to sit on the driver’s seat and played with the steering wheel. The security guard showed Emily how to work the pedals and the gear stick. All the children, luggage and chaos, boarded the bus. Emily released the clutch, the bus lurched forward, and everybody felt the fluttering of wings in their stomachs as Emily placed her foot on the pedal.

Emily didn’t know what she was supposed to be looking for. Occasionally she would see a sign for the North Pole this way or that way, but as far as she was concerned she just stuck to the tracks in the road in front. If the wheels followed the grooves then so did she. Soon she came across a sign that said ‘Santa. This Way’ She quickly pulled the bus round to the right waking up the rest of the children on board.

After what seemed like eons a small fiery dot appeared in the horizon and then came another, like two eyes. The other children came to the front of the bus to see what the lights were. The dots started to form a shape of arms, legs and a rather large round belly. The figure was at least a hundred foot tall and as they drew closer other colours started to fill in the space between the dots. A red suit. A black belt. And a long white beard. It was that well-known figure that adorned the lawn and roof of many a home in Finger Moon village. Santa!

The children started to whoop and holler. It all seemed too true. Emily stopped the bus and the children ran off excitedly to see the great and true Santa. He was in fact taller than they realized and waved his hands and legs around like a maniac escaping into the sky. Emily stood peering into the eyes of the Great Santa and knew something was up. His smile was a bit too fixed. His continuous laughter far too mechanical. She grabbed a rock from the ground and aimed it squarely at one of Santa’s eyes. The rock flew straight into the eye and the sound of glass crushing was heard followed by a small explosion. The children stopped to look at what was happening and again she picked up another rock and aimed it squarely at the other eye, and again another flash, and boom. One of the kids started to rush towards her and grabbed Emily.

‘You leave him alone.’ He cried.

‘That’s not Santa. It’s a fake.’

And then another kid came forward. The kid threw one straight into its mouth. The laughing stopped and the game was up. His limbs, beard, and head all came crashing down until all that was left was a broken pile of plastic lights and clothing. The children stared at the broken machinery in dismay but Emily had noticed something in the distance. Someone running away.

‘Hey. There’s someone who has been pulling his legs. A man in the distance running away.’ 

Emily dashed off after the man with a gang of them in tow. The man appeared to be wearing no clothes except a shawl wrapped over his shoulders which was unusual for these parts. He was bold and skinny and very old. She could hear him puffing and panting and wheezing. It wasn’t too long before she caught up with him and then threw herself around his spindly legs. They both came crashing down in the snow with the other kids behind Emily. The old man scampered away and shielded himself from being hit.

‘Who the hell are you and why are you playing tricks on all of us?’

‘Where is the real Santa?’

Emily had to hold back the other kids from tearing the man apart such was there disappointment. And then the old man spoke and his voice felt so smooth and warming that it melted the hearts and minds of all the children standing around him.

‘I am so sorry to disappoint you. I never meant to harm you. Of course there is no Santa but he seemed ideal for where you were at in your life. A little hope never hurt anyone.’

The kids fell to their knees in awe at the soft tones of his voice.

‘So then. This is it.’ Said Emily.

‘Yes. This is it.’ Said the old man.

The kids sat in deep silence. Unsure what to say.

‘What do we take back home?’

‘Just take back the truth.’

And with that the old man got up and walked away into the darkness. Emily and the kids got back onto the bus and started to make the journey back home. As you can imagine the parents were none too pleased with what the kids had to say. So the children started to gather sticks and build a fire. They consoled each other with stories about the journey. Every year a celebration was held around the fire out of greatness for the beautiful world they had found themselves in. A greater appreciation for all living things had been born in the minds and hearts of all the people that lived in Finger Moon village.

Star Bucked

Jack huddled in the basement with the other residents. Above them sirens wailed across the empty skies while everyone below was sat down on the floor hugging their knees. Their faces filled with fear. The unbelievable had happened. A nuclear strike from a rogue state was heading towards their town.

Jack pulled up the collars on his leather jacket to keep him warm. He rubbed his hands briskly, and smiled to the lady that was sitting beside him. She looked at him with bemusement. Didn’t he realise the country was at war? But if Jack was honest, he really didn’t give a damn. He may have been huddled with the rest of them, but it wasn’t fear on his face but a sick sense of satisfaction.

‘Hi, how’s it going?’ said Jack. The lady stared at Jack thinking he was quite mad. He had to be mad smiling at a time like this.

‘My daughters are at university and my husband is in London. I just hope they are safe.’ She said with tears forming in her eyes. Jack put his arm around the lady to comfort her.

‘And I’ve lost my pet poodle.’ She burst into tears. Jack did his best to console her whilst quietly imagining the poodle disappearing in a cloud of smoke. Less yapping on the streets when he next goes for a walk, he thought.

‘Now, now. Please don’t cry. The chances are that with crude Iranian technology. The missile will barely make a dent.’

‘Oh you think so?’ said the lady while wiping the tears from under her eyes.

‘Sure. It’ll maybe just knock out a few shops, and schools, but everyone’s underground, so we’ll be back on our feet tomorrow, cleaning the streets and working together.’ She smiled and rested her head on Jack’s shoulder and tried to sleep. Above the sirens continued to wail.

Jack sat in the darkness of the basement listening to everyone’s concerns but he had to admit. He wasn’t sure what kind of missile was heading there way. What if the missile was crap? Iranian technology wasn’t the best technology around, and the last thing he needed was a weak missile that made a loud roar, but minimal structural damage. He prayed they had taken no chances and had deployed only the best they had. In a few minutes’ time he would know for sure.

Jack’s rather pessimistic attitude wasn’t entirely his own fault. You should have seen his mother. She would often be sat at the kitchen table, cigarette dangling from between her fingers, ash falling like snow onto the table saying,

‘It will all end over the black gold. The final days. Nostradamus predicted it, and so did the Hopi Indians.’

It seems the Hopi Indians were good at predicting everything but their own demise.

Jack was not afraid of his mother and would often retort.

‘The Bible has been rewritten that many times that nobody knows if anything in it is true,’

But his mother would just continue to stare at him as the burning embers of the cigarette beat a hasty retreat from the tip.

‘Just you wait and see. Just you wait and see.’

Of course his mother wasn’t entirely to blame for Jack’s cynical worldview. There were also the two failed marriages and the piles of rejected manuscripts that lay stacked in Jack’s cupboard. It wasn’t surprising that Jack took his vengeance out on a small provincial suburban town set up as an answer to the London housing crisis. Not to mention the endless rows of identikit, corporate branded clothes and food shops that now littered the high street. Maybe a little war would bring people together, Jack thought. Just like society after the Second World War.

Jack sat there imagining the missile blowing up the high streets. He could visualise the melted yellow sign, moulded like the food it sold. The red tick insignias flying into the air as fast as the expensive products were supposed to carry their owners. Jack, obviously unsure of the complexities involved in the construction of a nuclear weapon, especially one capable of destroying an entire city, hoped that at the very least it would take out Star Bucked. If there was one high street chain he had come to loathe. It was Star Bucked. It seemed to sum up everything that was wrong with today’s tacky, throwaway, have-it-all society; and the frothy choccy lattes were nearly five pounds!

The sirens suddenly stopped wailing and it was some hours before the army guards gave the signal to go upstairs, but no one wanted to move. After all, wouldn’t the radiation kill them? But Jack jumped up and tore past the residents who seemed slightly taken aback by his eagerness. He donned the dark green suit and rubber head gear and some of the residents started to stand up and pat him on the back.

‘Look after yourself, son,’ they said. ‘Be careful out there,’ said another. But Jack was no hero. He knew exactly what he wanted. He climbed the steel ladder to the top and started to unscrew the bottom of the drain that had encased them. He pushed the door trap up with all his might and the drain fell to the ground. Jack climbed up the ladder and hoisted himself to the ground.

He stood up and stared around at the devastation. Cars were tumbled on top of each other. Mashed as easy as potatoes. Lampposts melted to the floor like ice-cream in the sun. Entire buildings had been flattened. Luckily there were no bodies as they had all escaped underground. For a while Jack felt sick. If there was a hell, he would be heading straight for it. He had wished for the devastation of his hometown and now he had it. He was gutted, but then suddenly he spied out of the corner of his eye. His main arch-enemy. Star Bucked.

All grief was suddenly forgotten and rage had taken over him. If there was one thing he had hated over the years it was seeing the death of a traditional Italian cappuccino poured to perfection in a mid-sized cup, now replaced by over-sized mugs of shoddily poured, apparently free ‘fucking’ trade, Star Bucked coffee.

Gripped with anger Jack strode towards the enemy picking up a chewed piece of metal from a now moulded flat Pizza Hut building, and running at the front doors straight on, he threw the twisted pipe and smashed down the doors. He walked behind the counter and as luck would have it, or thanks to inferior Iranian nuclear technology, the coffee machine was still alive. He did what he knew how to do, ‘of course he used to work as a barista’, and poured himself the perfect frothy latte, with a dash of caramel flavouring, then poured it into the largest takeaway cup he could find.

Grabbing a plastic lid he slammed it on the top. Stabbed a straw through the heart of it, and left a coin on the table top. Jack walked outside sipping his latte and then defiantly stuck his hand in the air. He held his frothy latte aloft like Excalibur’s sword and shouted.

‘There’s your fucking money Star Bucked and I have paid you exactly what it’s worth. One pound!’ Jack walked off triumphantly. Latte in hand. Sipping away. The scenery around him was total devastation but at least it was quiet.

Hojosan

As I arrived in Uithuizen a cold winter’s day greeted me as I stepped of the train. The wind’s sharp teeth bit into my bones. The flat farm fields that swept across my vision were an open playground for my troubled thoughts. The air around me was fresh and crisp. On opening the solid wooden doors to the temple warm smiles came to greet me from residents who were preparing for the arrival of a Japanese Monk. They whipped around me with their brushes and dusters, excited children eager to please. Zen Monasteries are cool places. The Dojo with its thick lacquered wooden floors. Bare feet that step lightly towards empty Zafus. Black kimonos worn like solemn gowns and the sound of the wood that wakes you in the morning. Gleefully I joined in the cleaning of the monastery in preparation for his arrival. We cleaned the Dojo from top to bottom. Of dust, of leaves, of ourselves and the need to cling to things. Then waited for his arrival. We stood in the hallway chattering amongst ourselves like robin redbreasts lined up on a tree branch in mid-winter.

At first I could not see him as he entered through the wooden doors. And then I caught a glimpse of him and he was oh so slightly built. Walking with purpose. Walking with grace and humility. He placed one foot in front of the other as if each step mattered. His body was taut like an archer’s bow. He offered everyone a warm smile and a bow. He put his hands into Gassho with each person he met. One of his hands was slightly deformed making him appear more fragile. We filed into the Dojo attempting to mimic his lightness. Shuffling like paper soldiers towards our Zafus. Waiting for Hojosan to sit first. He moved towards his Zafu his feet barely touching the floor. He offered a bow to the statue of Amithaba and lit an incense stick out of respect. He then went to his cushion and sat down and folded himself like a lotus flower into his meditation position. The abbot tapped the bowl indicating the beginning of Zazen.

After a few minutes of silence Hojosan began to talk. His English was slightly broken so I leaned in further towards him.

‘When I was soldier during the war. I was Kamikaze pilot. Funny to think. Now that I am Japanese Monk. I was ready to die for Emperor of Japan. One day when I am in my cockpit message come through tannoy. Japan had surrendered and Japan was no longer at war. I sat in my cockpit and did not know what to do. I was ready to die for my country and now I was going to live. What to do? I got out of my cockpit and like the other pilots stood silent in disbelief. We were all stunned. I decided to walk into town. In town many people wandered around lost, unsure of themselves, aimlessly wandered around like hungry ghosts. When I looked around I remember seeing this chair. Untouched by the ravages of war. Standing amongst the rubble. It appeared fragile. It was empty. I went over to the chair and sat on it. Now the chair was full.’

I waited for the punch line. The rest of the story but he just returned to his meditation. A flower in full bloom. We continued to sit in silence. The only sounds were of the birds outside chirruping. And the occasional ruffle when someone folded their Kimono. My thoughts remained on the empty chair until the Abbott rang the bell. The bell’s sound washed over our minds as we started to stretch our legs and unfold ourselves. We broke for lunch and began preparing the food for our guest. Warm freshly baked bread was placed into baskets. Cheese, grapes, dates, and wine were placed on the table. Knives, forks and spoons arranged around cork mats. It was a frugal, earthy banquet that came from the heart. We sat down taking the bread and wine and waiting for Hojosan to join us. As he entered we all bowed and then recited a short prayer thanking the Buddha for our food.

All eyes were on Hojosan and most people remained quiet and peaceful. To break the silence, the head monk went around the table asking questions of various people to get the conversation flowing. Hojosan out of the blue turned to the girl beside him and said,

‘Why are you so beautiful?’

The girl was shocked and a rush of blood headed towards her cheeks. The redness in her face now matched the wine until she burst out,

‘It must be due to the Irish in me.’

Hojosan gave a childish laugh and everyone else gave an uncertain chuckle. The air around the table relaxed as our elder statesman did his best to reduce our stiff expectations of him. We fell into our personal conversations and the communal noise was as natural as nature’s rustles and breezes. Bread was chewed. Cheese nibbled. And the wine disappeared. After the food we stood and carried on talking while Hojosan introduced himself to the others with that same question.

‘Why are you so beautiful?’

‘Because I am,’ said one.

‘Am I?’ said another.

‘Oh. Thank you.’

Hojosan and the Abbott retired to the conservatory where a couple of talented volunteers had offered their musical abilities on the violin and the piano. After the food and wine we fell into a slumber as our teacher and the Abbott relaxed on a dog-chewed sofa placed in the corner. The music from the violin strings and piano keys were an extra dessert to be nurtured by our senses as we all battled hard to stay awake. Sleep was calling. Hojosan went first. His head resting on the Abbott’s shoulder. His hands and arms curled up like a baby. It was hard to think that he was once ready to be a Kamikaze pilot. Ready to die for a cause. A handy experience for a Zen teacher. It was to be a brief visit and the following day Hojosan was due to leave. We gathered around him. This time sweeping him into his car with the leaves. Friends not students. As the car drove off we all waved goodbye to him. He shouted out the window one last time. ‘Why are you all so beautiful?’ and disappeared into the distant road. The leaves flipping, twisting and twirling in the air.

Running Away

It seemed everything kicked off that year. Financial meltdowns, war with Iran, and the year that conspiracy theorists were no longer called conspiracy theorists.

Trust no one, was the global mantra creeping round the minds of most people on the planet these days. And that is what Michael did. Trust no one. He glanced both ways down the street ignoring the CCTV drone that flew overhead. He could throw the mobile phone away but they could still track him down. Either through the satellites, or the CCTV systems now monitored by the very loyal, and fearful, Joe Public.

Millions of the faithful British public would log on to the Internet in the evening using their favourite software program, Neighbourhood Watch. They would sit for hours watching grainy images of people out shopping, or driving down the road, or tune into the unidentified voices of their fellow citizens. Any suspicious activity; an awkward shuffle, a dangerous word, and they would alert the local police straight away. People did anything for money these days.

Michael cursed to himself as he headed home. How the hell had society managed to flip so quickly? Fear was a great motivator these days, and after the atrocities of last year people no longer trusted each other. Sheila opened the door with a worried look upon her face.

‘Bloody hell Michael, where have you been?’

He went inside quickly checking the side streets before he stepped in. Sheila looked both ways down the street as well. Michael headed towards the kitchen out back. Sheila filled up the kettle and switched it on while Michael sat down at the table, again glancing out of the back window, for any suspicious activity.

‘You shouldn’t have gone to see that film,’ said Sheila, placing the cigarette in her mouth, its tip trembling along with her lips.

‘It was only a film against capitalism, nothing to do with terrorism. It’s still a free country. Isn’t it?’ said Michael.

‘It doesn’t matter. With a war on they are looking for any excuse to put people away. You don’t know what kind of people are at those meetings.’

The kettle steam bubbled into the air as Sheila took another drag on her cigarette. Michael’s crime against society was to go to a private screening called, The End of Capitalism. A documentary that suggested armed struggle against all politics was the only answer to the current crisis. Michael wasn’t your average revolutionary, or even that political. He was quite apathetic, but there were so many things wrong today it was hard not to want to do something about it.

The problem was no one could be bothered to do anything about it. The film had shown him that there were three kinds of people in today’s society. The ignorant, that followed the government mantra whatever it was; the scared, who knew it was all lies but didn’t want to rock the boat; and those that stood up and fought for what they believed in. If you were the latter and engaged in anything considered slightly anti-government, then it was highly likely you would be imprisoned by the police for being a state terrorist.

‘It was just a film. A fucking film. They can’t get me for that.’ He took the cup of tea from Sheila and allowed the very hot cup to burn into his hands. The burning heat acting as some kind of penance.

‘And the mortgage, what the hell was that about?’

Michael looked away from Sheila and out the window. He wondered whether he could even trust her these days. She was sounding more and more erratic. She belonged to the second group, the scared.

‘These banks have stolen millions. Why should they suddenly give a fuck if I refuse to pay my mortgage? They can have it back as far as I am concerned.’

Not paying your mortgage was considered quite revolutionary if you were part of the anti-capitalism movement. They didn’t want society to recover from the current turmoil, but they wanted to use the opportunity to build a new society without politics, money, or control. It was considered a great sacrifice to the cause to just refuse to pay the mortgage and bring the system crashing down. The banks were aware of this, and in collusion with the government, could now force you to pay the bills or face imprisonment.

The phone rang and Sheila picked it up.

‘Yes he is here.’ She took a drag from her cigarette. ‘Sure I will let him know.’ She put the phone down.

‘Who was it?’ asked Michael.

‘The police,’ said Sheila.

‘Great. What did I get? Ten years for watching a film.’

‘They wanted to ask you some questions. Maybe you should just pop down the road and visit them. It will look better.’

Silence descended between them as they both nurtured their own thoughts.

‘Nobody pops down the road to visit the police anymore. At the meeting they said that people were being taken to correctional facilities where they were either forced into work camps, or forced to join the army.’

‘It’s just rumours, Mike. You’ve become to paranoid. This security is for our protection. The terrorists now have hold of nuclear devices; just look at Iran, the world’s gone mad.’

There was a knock at the door. Michael looked towards Sheila, and Sheila just smiled.

‘It’s Mark. I invited him over to talk to you.’

He breathed out a sigh of relief as he went through the living room to the front door. Mark was one of his best friends. One of the few people who could be trusted. As he opened the door he was met by the fearsome sight of the Anti-Terrorist Branch.

Long gone were the days when you were greeted by a tall blue hat, with a silver badge and a face that smiled. Now it was a black rubber mask with glass eyes, that reflected your own image back, and a rifle barrel that was pointed directly at your forehead.

Michael did what he wouldn’t normally do, and ran. Instinctively he went upstairs and into the small bedroom.

‘Stop now or we will shoot!’ screamed the officers as they swarmed into the house. He ran as fast as he could. Sheila stood terrified in the kitchen as officers photographed and scanned her details into the system.

As soon as Michael was in the bedroom he closed the door behind him, and dropped the cupboard onto the floor to block the door. He opened the window and climbed out, quickly jumping into the alley below. He could hear the shouts and screams as he jumped onto his bike and cycled down the alleyway and onto the small path beside the river. He was glad for his years as a conspiracy theorist. He had already thought of all eventualities. Within a few minutes he was already far away from the police, cycling down dirt tracks they could not reach.

After a few hours of cycling he got off his bike. He could see a motorway station up ahead with a field and a forest behind it. He threw the bike in the river just under a small bridge so it couldn’t be seen.

As he hid in the bushes, he could hear the drones passing overhead. It was one thing to have seen them on the news in Pakistan, or Iran, but to see them on your own turf was strange. At one point it seemed like the whole world was heading towards some happy place, and then boom it was like World War Three.

It was dark now, and the only sounds were of birds tweeting, and the river’s water flowing. Michael walked towards the petrol station to make a call. He figured he had a few minutes before he was tapped, and then he would have to run. He walked into the kiosk aware of the locations of the CCTV cameras and dialled the number. The phone rang a few times.

‘Hello.’

‘Hi Mark. It’s Michael.’

‘Bloody hell mate. I’ve had the cops round here asking all sorts of questions.’

‘I thought so, and I know I don’t have long but I had to call someone.’

‘It’s not safe mate and I have nothing for you. I suggest you go on a long holiday, a very long holiday. Now fuck off.’

He put the phone down, and looked around him. That was bad. He knew Mark well and he didn’t rattle easily. He needed to find an escape route quickly before the helicopters arrived.

Behind the petrol stations were a couple of lorries. He walked up to the rear of one. The signage said ‘Scottish Whiskey’ and he crossed his fingers hoping that it was heading up north. He looked around and pulled back the tarpaulin and jumped inside before the driver came back. Just as the truck driver started his engine he could hear the whirr of a helicopter overhead. The lorry drove off just in time.

Where he was going he didn’t know, but anywhere was better than home. He sat in the back of the truck, his head leaning against one of the whiskey barrels. He wondered what to do next. Whilst at one of the meetings he had heard of camps set up by activists. They were far away from cities, mainly near the coast around Wales and Scotland, places that were harder to reach. He had one more number left to call. A girl he had met at the meeting. Maybe she would know.

Michael fell asleep after a few minutes, exhausted. He woke up the next day with a sore neck, and daylight peeking in through the tarpaulin. The truck had stopped and the driver must have fallen asleep. He looked outside at the road signs which read ‘Stoke on Trent.’ He jumped out and went to the shop to buy some more food then went into the phone booth and dialled his last number.

‘Hello.’

‘I have to be quick. I met you at the meeting and you mentioned a great place to go for holidays.’

He hoped she would click. She did.

‘The Bay,’ she said briefly, and the phone went dead.

He went back inside the garage shop and checked the maps for Wales then went outside and started to thumb a lift.

By nightfall he had made his way to Colwyn Bay. The town seemed deserted. A lot of people had left for jobs in the cities. Most work had dried up since the collapse, and the only benefits that were left were tied in with ‘community jobs’ in the cities. This mainly meant next to nothing labour while working for large corporations. But who would question it. With a ‘war’ on, that old propaganda tool, ‘British Spirit’ was fully utilised to shame society into accepting the conditions, or else.

‘Is there anybody here,’ shouted Michael, but his words were kidnapped by the wind’s howl.

‘Is there anybody here,’ he shouted again, and a person appeared at the bottom of the street. He walked quickly down the street towards the person. She looked scruffy and dirty, wearing clothes that were too big for her. She looked terrified.

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

‘My name’s Michael. I’m on the run and I heard there were camps here for activists.’

‘How can we trust you?’ she asked, looking intently into his eyes.

‘You can’t, and I can’t trust you. So we have to take a risk. What’s your name?’ he asked.

‘Rebecca. Come with me.’ She turned and he followed her into the darkness.

He expected to find some band of fearless warriors ready to fight for justice but she acted like the war had been lost. The girl led him to a country barn and he knocked on the door. The door opened to an angry face.

‘Who the hell is he?’ asked the guy.

‘He’s running from the police.’

‘How the fuck do you know?’

‘We don’t. I just have to trust my instincts,’ said the girl. The man opened the door and allowed them both in. Michael walked into the barn and into a warm room. There were about fifteen people sitting around the house with a smaller group huddled around a fire. Some were watching a film on a television powered by a car battery. One person was strumming on a half-tuned guitar, ignored by the rest. The rest all looked at him with that look of dread in their eyes. This wasn’t what he expected but he did his best to appear hopeful.

‘So this is where the revolution’s at?’ said Michael with a half-smile. The man who appeared the strongest and most vocal came forward.

‘There’s no revolution here. There’s no revolution anywhere. We’re just trying to get by. We have enough food, and live a quiet life.’ He was surprised by the hostility levelled towards him.

‘I thought there would be some activist camps. You know trying to kill capitalism and change the world.’

‘We thought that too but the forces we are fighting are far too strong to fight. They’re evil,’ and the man turned away to watch the television.

Everybody went back to doing their own thing, and ignored him. He was baffled by their reactions. It was late and maybe everybody was tired. He would ask more questions tomorrow. He found himself a place and decided to get some sleep. The imperfect guitar sounds soothed his exhausted body as he fell asleep.

Michael woke up the next day with a cup of coffee in his face. As he sat up he noticed the room was empty except for the big guy. He sat up wondering where the girl had gone.

‘I’ve made you a coffee. We are all moving, and I suggest you do too. Stay away from the beaches. You are better off back home. You are better off pretending to be part of it all. Play the game, because you can’t win.’

‘I’m sure we can gather some people. There are many groups involved in London. It’s not all lost.’ said Michael.

The man looked at Michael again. It looked like he wanted to cry. He looked as if he couldn’t take it anymore.

‘Just stay away from the beaches,’ and the man walked out the door.

Michael sat there with his coffee feeling a little confused. He finished his drink and went outside. It was a windy but sunny day, and the sea was not more than five minutes away so he decided to stroll down the path towards the beach. As he walked down the path he noticed a body lying beside the path. As he got closer he rea