The places we used to go

Thelonious Monk in Starbucks. He was there, the great man, they were serving coffee, he was looking for a spare piano. He should have been looking for a piano bar but here he was, stuck in this strange (now to him) city with an idea, there, sharp and acute in the middle of his head. He needed a piano but all he could find was Starbucks. Businesses move, bars and cafes come and go, time was also short. He was a stranger here thanks to time and the small matter of death.

It was 2012 and Thelonious by now had been gone from this mortal coil for over thirty years. His ghostly, unresting spirit form still roamed the earth however, composing from time to time. (There's an obvious “unlike” joke here that I'll avoid). Eagle eyed and curious as ever he spotted a young lady called Sarah with double Macchiato and an iPad. With the special intuition only ghosts possess he realised that she had on it a keyboard app. Nice work. He sidled up beside her, parked himself on the green leather couch and waited. She gave out a little shiver and gripped the warm white cup a little more tightly. Thelonious was on her shoulder now, watching the tiny screen, her thumb was pushing the changes across and after few faltering alternatives along came the keyboard. It was by Yamaha. Thelonious wondered if it would be quite man enough for his playing, then he thought about any port in a storm and today the clouds were gathering.

Supernatural powers tend to be just that. I can't really explain what happened next, it's all a fuzzy, ghostly kind of thing. You might call it a mind swap or a take over but those terms are clumsy, the belong in cheap Sci-Fi. Just believe me when I say that Thelonious could now operate the keys that were scrolling on the screen and hear the sweet and rough chords and notes via the tiny white ear piece. Sarah was of course somewhere else right now, near but far if you follow, detached or unplugged, maybe vacant. To the casual observer there was just a regular customer called Sarah working something out on an iPad. Nothing worthy of a second glance (other than to take in her cute red hair and a pretty but right now very serious smile). She broke away for a moment and took a big gulp of the coffee. Thelonious felt that tug and buzz and played on, his ideas coming in streams and splashes that gurgled across and into the shiny device. It was good to get this kind of work out an let that mechanical reverb sting into his ears. Good new science.

Sarah woke in panic, she reached for her handbag, iPad and phone. All OK. Coffee cold, half a cup left, she'd nodded off, stupid thing to do, in the city, close call. She gathered her stuff, checked herself again, where had the morning gone?

On Soundcloud there were quite a few new tunes uploaded today, decent stats. Wannabe demos, silly mash ups, earnest singer songwriters with their minor key dirges, sketches and ideas and strangely enough one eight minute jazz piano piece. A solo and virtuoso keyboard outing, uploaded from Sarah Pound's iPhone at 10:27. By 15:00 it had taken about two hundred and fifty plays and the comments were building up. By 16:00 it had been Tweeted and re-Tweeted another forty times. By the next day it was all over the Jazz Pages in social media, forums and all-sorts. There were questions and conversations, a late night DJ caught it and it debuted at 23:15 all across New York. Big things happening, fire spreading.

Sarah was asleep by then, tired and oblivious. Thelonious? He's just out there somewhere, catching ideas, trying to work out a few things, wrestling with the forces, inside and outside and all over. We never really know where music comes from, any of it, we certainly don't own it or the process that puts it altogether, all we know is how it sounds, what it touches and where it goes.

The Other General

I never was sure what was supposed to be happening with the General’s plant and antique collection. It seemed to me to be an odd mixture of tired out succulents and dribs and drabs of Victorian and Georgian clutter that whilst interesting had no real value at all. The old man had other ideas and regularly regaled me with stories of how the vegetation and memorabilia he had collected had come to him via his family and, as far as was possible in a military career followed him around the world. Now of course the whole collection had come to some kind of abrupt and final rest in his bungalow in Eastbourne.

The plants, large and ugly, all green and yellow variegation sat in brass pot holders in the conservatory. Some were bruised and battered, others tough and gnarled, they looked tired out and pot bound but still each one managed to produce green shoots. They wee also subject o a strip watering and feeding regime. The General kept the details in a note book (each plant being numbered) and all had to be watered and fed according this complex rota. He still typed out a monthly rota that I had to follow. Naturally he typed the instruction on an ancient mechanical typewriter that thundered and chugged like a twenty pound Howitzer.

The typewriter  represented the more useful objects in the Victoriana collection. In truth there wasn’t much of it either. It all resided in the study, on shelves and in hampers; books, ornaments, medals and office equipment, cards and games and odd dirty looking boxes of rubbish. The General however treated it all with care and reverence and none of it, not even the typewriter ever left the room.

My duties were simple enough, keep the house running, follow the various rotas (all monthly), do some driving and collection work and, when he was busy or in some mood; overcome with nostalgia or reflection, leave him well alone. Once in a while he’d send me up to London, there I’d collect a large consignment of Cuban cigars, vintage port and malt whiskies and return them to him. These would be deposited in the cellar and consumed, bit by bit by the General. I was never offered a drop, not that I wanted one. Strong drink and it’s late night consumption never did appeal to me or indeed agree with me. He was happy to drink and smoke alone, tapping on the typewriter or thumbing through books and journals. He did occasionally hint that he was close to completing some project or other but I never did see any them (whatever they were) come to fruition.

On Thursdays, once the chores were done and the plants cared for I drove him up to the Conservative Club where he took lunch. Lunch lasted from twelve until about four thirty. This was my afternoon off and I quite looked forward to it. When I collected him at four thirty he was well oiled, tired and even more cantankerous than usual. He sit in the back of the Jaguar and try to pick a fight. He’d argue with my reflection in the driving mirror about UK foreign policy, welfare payments, the Euro zone or whatever the hot topic had been amongst his cronies. I’d try to humour him with polite banter in return but I wasn’t really interested, any engagement in this mood would not be constructive. Once I’d returned him to the house he’d spend the rest of the evening talking to himself and the plants in the conservatory.

It was a September Thursday when it all went wrong. The Olympic summer and the wet weather was over, he’d been to the club and the usual pattern of behaviour had taken place. I was in the kitchen making myself a coffee, I looked up at the clock, it was now about eight thirty. I was at the table ready to tackle the Times crossword, it helped me relax. It helped me switch off and think in other directions.
It was at eight thirty five when the first loud explosion occurred. It came from the conservatory, the door blew in, it flew past me and hit the far wall, a cloud of hot dust followed, then more debris. I was under the table coughing and dazed. WTF? I was shaking, stunned.

I struggled to my feet. That was when the second explosion took place, this one came from the study. The wall on my left bowed and spewed dust and plaster parts. There was more smoke and heat and I was back on my back, this time on the far side of the kitchen and I passed out.

I awoke in a hospital bed, a policeman stood at the foot. A doctor appeared and said a few words, he was reassuring me. “You’ve been through quite trauma, remarkably you’re escaped relatively unscathed, a few cuts and bruises, minor concussion. I’m sorry to say that your employer, err the General was not so lucky. I’m afraid he was killed in the explosion.” The shock of it all washed over me, I’d survived, he was dead, what the hell had happened? Who’d blown up the house and taken out the old boy?
The police officer stepped forward. “Opium!” He said, “what do you know about it?” I shook my head, it hurt, no ideas or answers were available either, my head was starting to spin again  and I slumped back into a disturbed unconscious state.

Weeks later at the inquest  I heard about the opium, the plants, the nick-knacks and the explosion. The plants were rare members of the poppy family. Humoronous Glycernia, apparently the only plant in the world of nature  that, at certain times gave of a mildly explosive substance. It seems it took a long time to be processed in the plants and mature into it’s most potent form, a volatile sap that dripped from the leaf ends that tainted and poisoned anything it touched. Over the years it had touched the General’s possessions, his journals, his skin, the pots and various artifacts and items. The slow build up, in the evening warmth of the late summer conservatory was just at the right mixture for detonation when the general’s cigar tip touched some dried out and mature sap resin. A chain reaction followed in the conservatory and the study, the explosions immediately killing the General, flattening most of the house and stunning me.

When the will was eventually read there were no big surprises, the Conservative Club got the biggest share. I believe they built a new wing with a modern conservatory onto the restaurant, it is  to be used as a  function room. That was  their share of the proceeds. There were other beneficiaries here and there, charities and various dull military associations. As for me, he left me the Jaguar, it had 135,000 miles on the clock and four bald tyres but hey I‘d escaped with my life…I also got the typewriter. It was bent, battered and in pieces when I collected it, in a brown cardboard box. There was an old, hand written and weather faded label on the lid, I struggled to read it…“Humoronous Glycernia Seeds: Bombay March 1947. Handle with Great Care, can be Flammable in certain circumstances.”

Build a better airship

At first I was insulted by his taunt, his vacuous look and face, smirks and challenges. Then I thought about it, I went home, I walked, I paced around the house, head spinning. I drank some liquor, I drank some more, then it was as if Gabriel the White Angel had breathed upon my forehead and touched my fingers. I picked up my pen, rolled open my sketch pad and set to work. I was sweating as the ink touched the paper, it was the point of no return.

For two days I worked, I breathed life into those stains, those marks and numbers on the paper. Bigger, better, longer and stronger, so it would be. A world beater,  a record breaker, a head turner. Something that my fellow countrymen would see and applaud, find inspiration in, be proud of. A national symbol of our endeavour, our industry and most important of all our imaginations, joined for once.

Then I slept and dreamt a strange, patched up nonsense of a dream, great clouds and fog, steam and ice and water pouring on everyone, then fire, then water. There was no sound, only a monochrome silence broken by a single voice talking in strange, staccato language. Hysteria and blame, twists of crumbled construction and wagging fingers. I could see the black tipped headlines but I could not read them. It was not possible due to the covering vapour trail and blowing papers. Blowing papers, cartridge paper now, noisy in it's temper, objectionable as I screwed it up and rammed it into the wicker basket. The materials have come together and...separated.

The river stops

“The river always stops for the guitar's music. It's all an old saying amongst the gypsy musicians," said Carrie. “They believe there was an elemental power in music, if played at the right time, in the right way. A power. A magic in the spirit. I dunno, I heard that in Spain someplace, maybe in a film or maybe my parents told me.” Joel was quiet, in his own space, thinking odd thoughts staring at the cold dark water running by. He was thinking about his guitar, his music. The music he liked to make here, out here by the river. He fingered up a chord and began to pick and strum forming a tune. The hollow wooden box and metal strings cast out sweet sounds, sweet as nuts up in high trees, too high to ever pick. The tune was long and liquid, it followed familiar progressions and then moved, made odd jumps, changes in key and tempo, odd chords thrown in. Carrie was walking away, somewhere else in her own thoughts.

As he played he watched the river currents and water shapes come and go, swell, change and glisten with the music. Fish swam by, creatures and carrion, trees and sticks, twigs and wreckage on the tiny white horses of the waves and water heads. It was a hypnotic moment that stretched for hours. He played and the river paid attention, the river obeyed, the river gave way to the music and allowed the sound and rhythm to pick up an carry those movements, hold and then release the flow. Joel was in there, in the music, in the guitar and in the river. It was that moment he'd dreamed of, that perfect rapport. It had all come together for Joel. Poor Joel.

Three days later the Sheriff's men found Joel's body, carried ten miles or so downstream, he was laid out on a mudbank face down. At the edge the white prowler's blue flashing lights were visible from the road. Some folks stopped to take a look and then went about their business. It was a big river. Granddad identified the body when they brought it back to town, he needed half a bottle of whisky and time to himself before he could talk afterwards. “Three days in the water don't make a body look pretty.” Carrie cried for a week and then went back to school, it was going to be a long winter and the birds were flying real low. They never did find the guitar either. “It just floated away to some other place.” Said Carrie.

Illicit bimbo

Fortified by the olives, a slice of dry bread and a half bottle of Montepulciano, Richard asked himself why it had been so difficult to swop the peach coloured toilet rolls in the upstairs bathroom for the plain white ones that had been put in the downstairs toilet. It was obviously some kind of mistake but he'd had to force himself to make the change and so get things back to normal. Of course as soon as he thought about that it begged the question, what exactly was normal around here? Suddenly he was noticing little things, little things that pricked at him and grew until they became annoying, like insect bites on a summer's evening. Red hot circles in the flesh. He was seeing too much detail in this plainly imperfect world and the amount of work it would take to correct it all was overwhelming. The patterns on the curtains, the towels, the table clothes all seemed to be both soothing and at the same time infuriating. Why on earth had somebody commissioned and designed that design? Who had manufactured it, distributed it and then bought it? What kind of atmosphere were they trying to create or mood did they mean to provoke?

The experimental drugs that had been administered to Richard were clearly having side effects. He was part of the usual kind of live / placebo trial but based on a new male/female contraceptive pill. One that was effective, non hormonal and as a basic feature should not affect the users mojo or libido, a key selling point. These mood enhancing side effects were not welcome nor as far as Richard was concerned, understood. The brief and the trial literature had not mentioned this at all, though Richard would have admitted he hadn't read or listened to everything. He was home now for a few hours whilst the drug kicked in and as a vital part of the deal had sworn to avoid any sexual contact. It was, at this stage of the project all about feelings and most significantly making the mojo work. He had an app on his iPad with which to record these feelings and complete a set of questions, it was all simple enough but those feelings of agitation and masked purpose wouldn't go away.

He looked up from the screen and saw the furniture. I was all clearly in the wrong place, how had he not noticed before? He stood up a gathered and dragged the chairs, tables and couches into the middle of the room and pulled them this way and that concentrating on the shapes and the spaces. After about fifteen minutes of sweat and toil they were all back, back to where they started, but that was OK. The exercise had been carried out. Now the room, the house all seemed too small. He had to get out, he was hungry. He took a photo of himself with his phone, looked at it, deleted it, put on a jacket and headed out.

In the restaurant he watched her across the table. She was all blond and blue and brown running wet water colours and sparkling within a rainbow-like personal aura. She was squeezing half a fresh lime across a piece of roasted herb chicken. The lime yielded a surprising amount of juice, she stared into the meat as it absorbed the tart mixture of pulp and liquid. She tossed on some salt. Then she dug a fork in the flesh and began to eat. Across the table her bulky looking boyfriend or partner was sawing on a steak. Wine glasses were clinking, dull music played and people moved in and out, platters were carried between them and noises came from the kitchen's when the serving door opened. He couldn't take his eyes of her. She saw him, looked away and looked uncomfortable. The steak was still being eaten. She hung on the fork for a moment and their eyes met properly. For Richard it was an electric second but she just looked down, chewed food and opportunity a little and then he thought he saw that secret, illicit smile flicker across her face. That curious smile you may get just once or twice in a lifetime.

Steak Eater got up from the table and disappeared into the gents. For Richard it was now or never. Like a silently whirring mowing machine he moved between the tables and planked himself in steak eater's chair and grinned at her. Whatever he was giving off was powerful and reciprocated, with just a few words they were up and gone. On his return Steak Eater looked for her for a few moments, questioned a puzzled waiter and returned to his meal and sawed into more steak. He mouthed a “WTF?” to a watching diner across the field of glacier topped tables.

In the taxi, in the alley, in the room, in the inner room, in themselves; they were all over each other. The night was a blur for both. They awoke together in the sack in Richard's quickly rearranged apartment. She was laughing, tired, the world was such a small place, tiny and filled with happenstance and coincidences it seemed. Irony and encounter fell out of every vacant space. She reached into her handbag and pulled out her iPad. The drug test questionnaire wouldn't fill itself in and there was the full closure fee to consider.

“The approach used appears highly effective and is fully reversible, at least in the relative short term. The oral version used and trialled on a discrete group of adults is also preferable to the injected version we've been using on rodents. We're gathering more up to date data at the moment.”

Long walk home

“Oh blow!” Judith snorted, she was looking from the hairdresser's window, the rain was coming down in sheets. Heavy, unseasonal and potentially destructive towards the new hairdo that was nearing completion. “I'm that this wasn't forecast, this is freaky...” She mumbled more under her breath, the assistant and the hair dresser both ignored her and carried on with a mixture of small talk, tiny talk and infinitesimal talk. She remained oblivious and cursed her luck with the weather. She'd left the car at home that morning, deciding to take a stroll, enjoy the pampering at the salon and then via a few well chosen shops and cafes meander back to the flat in time for Simon getting home. It could have been the perfect day off and day out, now Mother Nature was intervening.

She paid the bill and looked out into the gloom. “Have you an umbrella I can borrow please?” The receptionist looked up from the desk and shook her head. “Sorry duck, we don't. There's a shop two minutes to your left.” She added helpfully but in a disinterested tone. Judith thought, “Why do people even bother to try to help when they've no actual intention of being helpful? Next time I'm going to that Italian sounding place in the mall. At least I'll get back to the car dry. I'm not walking again, I'm not walking into this stupid town again.”

She took a quick look at herself in the mirror, it was a good cut, the colour tones were just right, the blow dry was sweet as a nut. She imagined Simon running his fingers through it, sniffing the clean salon smell, breathing her in, remarking on the softness. Those products they'd used with that perfume you could never quite replicate anywhere else. Simon would love this hair. Now the weather was going to spoil it all. She stood in the doorway and gingerly leaned up and down the street, trying to for a strategy, to piece together route, from here to that shop (which better bloody be there, even a Poundland would do) avoiding the rain. The shop fronts however conspired against her. No obvious shelter or refuge. People were dashing by or staying put.It was a horrid afternoon. Desperate measures were called for, like hailing down a passing stranger for help.

Judith began to look for strangers. Most were some way of, all walking the comical way people do when avoiding rain, stepping across puddles, trying to make themselves small, stretching umbrellas across two or three people or a baby carriage. None of the techniques seemed to be working. Judith looked up at the sky, a dark brooding mass of grey cloud like the Throne of Odin was gathered up across the town – doing it's business on everything. No kind stranger was headed her way. Then, apparently from nowhere, lights blazing and reflecting in the wet asphalt there came a long, black Mercedes. It mounted the pavement a few yards down the street and came to a halt right outside the salon and a few feet away from Judith. A rear door opened and a voice called. “Get in Judith, get In!” Judith was puzzled, she hesitated for a moment, she didn't recognise the car or the voice but it was warm and dry inside. She took a quick step forward and in a second was inside the car, her hair still perfect.

The back seat was wide and empty, the soft tan leather melted around her. In front there was an opaque screen, the driver's head blurred by the smoked security glass. A voice emerged from the speaker system, she assumed it belonged to the driver. “Are you comfortable Judith?” “Yes I am,” said Judith, “now tell me who are you and how do you know my name?” “That's a very good question Judith...” The car door closed and the locks snapped on as the car drove off, lights still blazing and splashing through the rain and roadside puddles and was gone in flash. The hairdresser receptionist saw the whole thing through the shop window and nobody else ever saw Judith again.

The receptionist was doing her nails when the police came. She wasn't chewing gum but she spoke as if she was. Her face an odd mix of dull expression and a comic, made up coloured mask. “She stood outside for a minute, I think she was a bit worried about her hair. Then this big black car pulled up, I just thought that she was a bit posh, you know, she'd called up her car or taxi.” The policeman said nothing. “Funny though,” continued the girl, when that car came along the power in here just blipped, the till went off and then all zippy, my computer screen blanked and my phone's still not right. Funny like.”

Back at the station the report was typed up, usual format, usual detail. Detective Inspector Ian McDonald read through it and placed it back on the pile, the flat screen went back to sleep as he eyed himself and whispered to his reflection in the office window opposite. “How big is this bloody universe, how hungry and greedy are these people?” He looked down at the report title. 2012/08/25. 14:35. Incident report. UK Time Travel Kidnap Case No.353a Warwick High Street, Warwickshire.

Too many bananas

23^rd August, the day I found out I'd eaten far too many bananas for my own good.

“I've always liked them, always had an appetite for them. Maybe I overdid it with them once in a while. It started in the early morning, I had one sliced up on corn flakes. Then one for elevenses, then a banana sandwich for lunch and so on, all through the day, just my normal snacking and better than endless donuts or chocolate or biscuits or caffeine and stuff like that. I thought that I was being healthy, keeping myself right and there was I on the normal side or normal on the grid of measures about being normal.

I didn't realise that it was building up, in me. There like an oil well or a geyser or a time bomb, all that material, that chemical, trace upon trace, mingling and getting into everything. Worming it's way. If only I had had a worm, that might have helped. Tidied up the slack, acted as an antidote, digested all that surplus material. But of course I never saw it coming, that's what they all say, after the event. “Oh, you know I never saw that coming, not at all”. Yes that is what they all say and I was a typical example of not seeing some inevitable, terrible event coming.

The doctor said it was the Potassium of course. It had built up, I'd ingested it, it was everywhere, I was saturated, despite what I thought was a good balance, well what do I know about balance? What you see from the inside isn't balance, you need someone else to do that, to tell you, from their own reference points, “you're out of balance son.” Best if it's not too late, best if it's not...a doctor.

So I suppose nobody was as shocked as I was when it actually happened. Spontaneous combustion. A phenomenon, a mysterious and misunderstood phenomenon that baffles the worlds of science and crime. I just burned up, all of me, gone in a blue flash and fizzle. I don't suppose it smelled very nice and it was funny how nothing much else in the room was damaged, just a little smoke staining I believe and then there was the carpet of course. So all I did was drink a glass of water, next thing I'm on the ceiling looking down at a doctor and a policeman looking down at, well, what was me. I heard their voices and listened to their theories and then they sort of faded away and now, well I'm here in this foggy place, just thinking these thoughts and recounting as it were the events of my recent and as it would seem at the moment tragically concluded lifetime. Makes me feel hungry really, all this thinking and going over past events. I would love a nice ripe, yellow banana right now.”

Jimmy Jimmy

“I am getting smaller, look at my wrist, look at my wrist watch. See how loose it is!” Jimmy had always had a thing about his size. It started when at age seven or so the Undertones brought out the song “Jimmy Jimmy” all about “Poor Little Jimmy”. The pop song turned quickly into a sour sing-song playground taunt, an easy hook for fun, for bullies and for anybody in hailing distance to catch onto for cheap laugh and a pointy finger. Poor Little Jimmy. Jimmy however refused to stay little, he grew, he grew to six foot two. A useful height but all the time, sleeping and buried inside, Jimmy was still a little “Little”.

In over thirty years a lot happens but sometimes not very much changes. Jimmy had grown up, got a job, married, kids, divorced, in here, out there, playing the scene, then with time and tiredness curving downwards now, headed over the other side of the mountain where, waiting at the foot was “Little Jimmy”.

So despite their differences when Little Jimmy met big, full size Jimmy, there could only be one outcome. Little Jimmy returned and absorbed full size Jimmy. The memory, the fear, the taunting and the doubts rained down again like yesterday's bad weather. Dark water pouring into each gap, soaking each crack and fissure, returning to be absorbed and re-energized into full size Jimmy, bent on making him little again. It was like a slow acting poison, eating from the inside and now shrinking him, eroding him, melting him away. First his thoughts (easy meat), then his clothes, his house, his job, his car, his friends and family, nothing fitted anymore. Big and little don't ever fit. Funny when you can't seem to fit into your own life anymore, where do you go then?

So here he is now, tiny and alone. A misfit? No big bold font, no capital letters, no uppercase, no inverted commas. There's no need for that, now it all fits, all fits nicely on a small piece of paper. The words that make up the name that describe the pain and the shame, they all fit, neat and tidy and tiny.

So Little Jimmy was here once, I do remember him, but see when that shrinking process begins, once you're on that slippery slope there's not much you can do. He just slipped and shrank and after a while we couldn't even hear his voice, couldn't understand him or know quite what it was that he wanted. It was at that point they came and took him away. It was all straightforward, not much effort needed, no resistance and a small white clinical vehicle was adequate for the task, at least that's what I heard. You never really know do you?

Star Trekish

Although I don't quite no what that small thing is, I know that there is always some small thing wrong within Star Trek. Recurring small things, issues (if you will) in the script and in the characters. I can only watch it for so long and then I start to squirm, as if wearing itchy underwear as each awkward slip or unscientific conundrum unravels. Even the passage of time cannot change this, I am not able to see beyond the plot holes and threadbare nature of each story and the flaws in that supposed world of the future. I am doomed never to get it.

“You're a sore loser Captain!” Kirk hadn't enjoyed last evening's card game particularly, he liked to win at Poker and today he was still smarting, down on the season's tally. He was telling himself to let it go but he wasn't listening to himself either. At least there was something distracting happening on the bridge. So Captain James Kirk sat back and into the bridge control seat. His stance aggressively deliberate as if caught up in an elaborate strategy to defend his position. His hands clasped the chair arms, his knuckles white with the tension of the moment and the increasing grip, all signs of insecurity. He was mumbling, still talking back to himself. Spock arched an eyebrow and looked away into an engineering scope display, distracted by an amber band running across a scanner warning screen. Kirk was staring at the main observation view. The image was slowly moving in on an unidentified craft, caught in the Enterprise's tractor beam. Kirk squinted, looking for some recognisable feature or piece of detail.

“Sensors are still negative.” Spock repeated his previous comment. “I'm guessing that there is a certain degree of resistance here, a type of cloaking system that I don't believe I've encountered before. Not one of our regular visitors I suspect.” Kirk was dissatisfied, “they are deliberately antagonising us by hiding their intentions, I'm hailing them again.” He thumbed the speech detector's trigger. “Unidentified craft, you are under Federation surveillance from Starship Enterprise. We request that you cooperate fully with this repeated request that you identify yourself and make clear to us your origins, flight plan and mission.” The auto-trans system immediately churned out a broadcast in 15 million galactic languages, a communication safety net set up for clarity and understanding, as was standard practice. Every life form known should be able to get some part of it. There was no response.

The screen image was now clear and the craft had been wrestled out of a back lit camouflage system. It was a smooth, silver cigar shaped vessel. Unmarked and anonymous. It's course coordinates had been hidden by the back lit system and now it was drifting, offering neither resistance or communication. “Get a party ready for boarding” barked Kirk, “this beast is irritating me and I want answers, what in the name of Great Galileo are they doing out here?”

The silver ship intrigued all on the bridge, the design was unfamiliar, old, slender and smooth, almost featureless. It didn't quite belong in this space, in this part of space, set under the thundering bulk of the on coming might of the Enterprise. “Still no sign of life forms on board.” Spock spoke almost automatically whilst running a number of specialised checks across the management system. “There is data here, it's emerging but it's not...logical.” Kirk bit back. “Damn it, I need something substantial, I've a report to file!”

Spock buried his head again in the read out, numbers and calculations flashed across, the figures were duly crunched. The scanners couldn't tell a lie. “I have a read out now.” Said Spock. “She's only 1000 yards away so this had better be good, that damned report...you know.” Spock looked up and walked across the bridge. There was the faintest trace of a smile, maybe even a smirk passing across his face. It had been strange day. “Captain.” Spock was leaning into Kirk's side and speaking in a very low voice. “Captain, the cigar shaped object, the unidentified vessel. We've run it through all the sensors and data banks and rechecked our findings, it turns out that it is...a cigar, in fact it's a Cuban cigar.”

Nothing

Nothing... just nothing.

Lay me down to sleep

Sometimes in life you're the last one, last in line, last person to know, that sort of thing that just happens to you, strange really. So now there's never quite enough coffee in the pot to keep me going, to keep me writing. Here I am, the great so-called diarist, the watcher of the skies, the final man on earth documenting the thoughts, needs, movements and observations of that final, lonely human being on earth. I look out across these land, sea and town scapes, devoid of any human or animal life, empty sky with no birds, no insects, nothing moves unless the wind blows it over, or the water cracks it or some of the spindly weird vegetation gets to it. Rain falls once in a while, I gather the water in cups and drums, to filter for later. The rain when it comes is thin and dirty, it catches the dust and particles and feebly tries to clean the air, the air that did such damage, the air we traded for time. The time that we had an squandered before we understood the consequences.

A while ago I passed the points of madness and philosophy, I spurned religious and other fantasy answers, there were no answers for anybody. I read some science fiction looking for a familiar plot that matched our bleak reality. Of course there were plenty of dystopian destroyed worlds, people and horrors, things eating themselves, tyranny and mutation and the structural decay I was now witnessing. But fiction is fiction no matter how well written and apparently influential or bent to shape it is to match the current perception of reality, still the whispers of fiction's memory persist. Nothing to worry about any more now. I couldn't hear the final whisper.

I couldn't read, I couldn't listen I could only write. I was thankful that the power reserves were holding up, the laptops and building systems still hummed. I'd never expected there to be power available in the last days but it was still there, crackling and sparking out from time to time. Once in a while a tremor would crack a cable and there would be a sound and a flash, I'd look up and maybe see the smoke drift away, maybe notice the light has gone out but maybe I'd not. Things went on.

I was in Ibiza, a white hot island in a warm blue sea. I had arrived there early in the rumblings, looking for a refuge. Everybody else was leaving, running home or away or into the sunset. Some people stayed, they were like me, stoical, determined, unattached, lazy. We worked and went about business, we watched the disasters play out on TV, we saw the webcasts, heard the radio and the messages. The final days were strange, we sat in the sun, in a bubble of sunshine as the bad air bit across the world, as the slow sleeping and choking and unconsciousness happened. There was this slow motion panic as the bits and pieces fell down. Sometimes a camera would be broadcasting, then the dialogue would cease and it would sit, pointing to the horizon or a blue screen, vacant. After a while it would time out and then just disappear, a blank new correspondent. The Chinese Channels went first, they had the worst air and the worst strategy. Slowly it moved West. Our satellite disk tracked the changes.

Aeroplanes and vehicles stopped quite quickly, the wrong mix or air in the intakes, limited adjustment, no internal combustion, movements and escapes were thwarted. There were tales of desperate battles over sail boats, here in Ibiza most had already sailed. We considered those left in the harbour, where would we take them anyway? They still sit at their moorings. The anecdotes about escaping rogue boats slowly stopped arriving as the air moved across. Short wars and pointless riots. Broadcasts became rationed, time was precious and human energy weak, too weak to bother with blame. Then after some short and uninformative official messages in English and Spanish the media shut itself down. We were alone. Spinning still.

For some of those on the island the realisation and acceptance of “alone” wasn't easy. There were fights, suicides, people disappeared, a little looting went on. After about a month we believed that there were about a hundred people left in circulation, sometimes I heard gun shots in the distance . We discussed the future in local groups, we agreed to agree, we tried to honestly list our resources and holdings, there was sharing but there was fear and mistrust. A strange new society stayed stillborn. Then a second wave of sickness came upon us. It was all over quite quickly. I went to bed, I woke up the next day, nobody else did. I took and bicycle, some water and a gun. I traveled along the coast, nothing nobody. Inland, nothing, nobody alive, not north not south. I took about a week to cover the island, there was only white noise on the radio. I returned to to my house, I sat on the veranda, I blocked the thoughts of the dead in their homes, the eerie stillness, too many people to check or bury. The dead animals, the vegetation creeping back, the crippled air that I alone could still breath. Why that was still possible I didn't know, science doesn’t have an answer for everything. Everyday I expected not to wake, as it had been for the others, but I was always waking up and breathing. Crazy.

I had an idea. I propped up a mirror on the nightstand, I took out some paper and charcoals, put on a collar and tie, I sat for myself. I started to draw myself, as a caricature in profile. I spent some time, I wasn't a quick worker, crayons broke and were sharpened. I took time and tried to get a likeness. It seemed appropriate, a silly, jokey, maybe cruel representation, a picture of the end, the last man. I shook it out and sprayed it with Spray-Mount so the crayon would stick. I posted it on the pin board and looked at it. I had a glass of wine and toasted the drawing with a silent speech. I was somewhere, sad and happy, my mark made on the paper. Me, on my own, a self portrait. It seemed to mean more than a web cam shot or anything techy, this had a final, human hand made connection.

So I stay on the veranda and write, eating out of cans, slowly drinking up the remains of the wine cellar. The sea comes and goes, she still obeys the moon, the sun circles us in 24 hours as always. Sometimes a cloud comes and I mark the calendar and take more notes. When the sky turns dark and the Mediterranean night falls you cant light a candle, I feel my breathing getting harder, the chest gets tight. The power back up might be squeezed for a last little light and a buzz but I let it go out, I close my eyes and sleep that blank sleep of resignation filled with hollow dreams I cannot recall. There may be more to come, this may be the end. I hit the save button on the document software, descending to 55% says the graphic at the top. Now I lay me down to sleep...

Dangerous individuals

The evening had followed the usual pattern. A pleasant if minimalistic meal, a few glasses of wine, a recount of the day so far and then, as the alcohol and tiredness kicked in. “You have to grow out of it sooner or later, you can't spend the rest of your life taking offence if somebody passes a thoughtless remark or looks at you the wrong way, not everything in life is there to be taken on board. The world is not stacked up against you alone, not every day, just take it, walk away, suck it up.” Denise never took Henry's response to her problems very well. She was now a little more upset, firstly at recalling this afternoon’s incident and trotting it out and then, as ever, at Henry's reply.

“You never, ever see my side! Do you think I'm unable to take a mature view of things? You think

I'm an emotional retard? Her voice had risen an octave and she was wagging her finger. The pointed red nail on her index finger seemed to add inches to the digit and confirm the ferocity of her comeback. Henry had heard it all before and recognised the proximity of the tipping point. Denise saw the same thing and rather than mount a rescue mission pushed further across the line. A series of familiar, emotional and insulting terms left both of their lips, their bodies arched and held poses like cats strutting and battling for territory. They closed up, circled one another, scored imaginary hits and points, then moved back.

The temperature in the room seemed to rise, Henry loosened his collar, Denise removed her cardigan and angrily tossed it across the couch. Both were equally animated to the point that a mushroom cloud of pouting, hissing steam was almost discernible between them. As a critical mass was reached the pair paused and each slugged a glass of wine as if it was both ammunition and lubrication. Each took a few moments to process the liquid and then the action resumed, roughly in the same place they'd left it. Of course it was beyond any structured or rational argument and as if to underline the stupidity of the situation.It was a routine bust up over something neither one was quite clear about.

DRRIINGG! The doorbell's shrill tone interrupted. Without a word Henry broken off from the proceedings and headed for the door, Denise was in his wake acting as if she didn't quite trust him to answer the door properly. Ready for just about anything Henry unlocked the door and opened it up in a rather dramatic fashion and lunged out towards the door bell ringer. There on the doorstep stood a bearded man in a grey tunic, he had a serious look on his face. The look stopped Henry and Denise in their tracks, mouths open they said nothing and held a frozen pose awaiting the stranger's words.

“Henry, Denise.” Said the man in a heavy, brown, foreign sounding accent. “Please allow me to introduce myself, I am the Lord Jesus, the Saviour of the World.”

Henry laughed immediately and almost spat out his response, “Go away!” Denise marvelled at Henry's restraint but found her own words, ready in her head had frozen and she couldn't quite speak. Henry was lowering his voice, responding to the lack of any response from Jesus. “OK sir,” said Henry, “what is the cause or the charity, I'm always happy help.”

“Henry, Denise.” Jesus looked at both of them, he held out his two hands, palms open. “I bring my peace to you and your household, I bring a blessing.” “OK sir,” said Henry attempting a second turn around, “I... err we appreciate the visit but please excuse us...” Jesus seemed to ignore Henry's words gazed at them both and was suddenly beside them in the hallway. Denise thought he seemed to be floating, she thought of her wine, now her head was fuzzy. Jesus was moving around the hallway, like Jesus would. Henry and Denise were moving also but unsure what to do and both strangely unable to counter or redirect the divine interloper.

Ten o’clock the next morning, first Henry's mobile phone rang then a few seconds later it was Denise's. Henry listened as a colleague asked why he was not with his clients at the meeting and was everything OK. Denise's assistant was wondering why she hadn't shown up for the pre-audit briefing. Henry was calm, serene almost, he was sitting on the carpet, legs crossed and beaming. Denise was also sitting on the floor, her back straight against the lounge wall, her hands were in her lap and she seemed to be staring at her toes. They were still in yesterday’s clothing and oblivious to both time and location. Their return phone conversations were perfectly synchronised, the words being almost identical and both delivered in a slightly toneless and unemotional manner. “Everything is fine, I'm fine, don't worry but it's unlikely that I'll be a work today. I'm busy, in fact I'm at home, at peace, sitting at the feet of the Lord Jesus.”

“Denise, I really do love you.” “Henry, I really do love you too and now that we both have Jesus in our lives...”

In the kitchen the radio was on a local channel burbling away at the tail end of a news bulletin, neither Henry or Denise were in earshot. “Valley residents are warned to beware of a con-man rumoured to be working the area. He may well use a hypnotic technique, a disguise or a costume to fool the public and so gain entry to your house and possibly rob or assault you. This man is a very dangerous individual wanted on a number of incidents, if you any information please contact the local police department immediately. Repeat...”