Words wormed their way through his head like an infestation of ideas. Cyril chuckled as he wrote, a vision of main character Sandra beckoning him on. And his fifteen year old heroine was writing her own novel about school life and its daily dramas. Cyril laughed again, this was a fun hobby for his recent retirement.
He heard his neighbour turn up their music and sighed. Little did he know, that hairdresser Daphne was also writing upstairs, indeed almost directly above him. In her story, heroine Sandra is the same age as her, 28, but a teacher rather than a hairdresser. And writing their own novel about school children antics. Daphne laughed as she wrote. Life should not be this fun. Words ran through her veins like ideas on drugs. And like a careful configuration of dominoes just ready to fall, words pushed a crazy pattern to its dizzy destiny … as an avalanche of words thundered through her fingers.
In the top floor flat above Daphne, John laughed as the keys of his laptop clicked like a dismembered voice. And the voice was inside him, it was in the words that streamed through his head like a fast flowing river, it was in the words that appeared on the screen before him, like imposters that surely did not emanate from him, like a visible scream of creation.
John, an IT technician by trade, wrote of novelist Sandra. At 50 years old she had a chip implanted to help her think, to write, to throw words in to the void that was life … This would be a dystopian novel about AI taking over real people. John laughed like a maniac as he wrote, words filling his heart with their wild song.
Cyril, Daphnie and John would briefly say hello to each other on the stairwell. Daphne knew their names; no one knew hers. Secret souls with hidden quests, their lives did not intersect however their private worlds were on a crash collision course of insane words on the run.
One day far in the future, the three novels were published by three different publishing houses. It did not take keen readers long to connect the three stories which featured the same character at different stages of life. The publishing world was on fire. How had this happened.
Daphne met Cyril on the stairs holding her novel, School Solstice. “That is my novel!” she gasped excitedly. John came through the front door to find the two writers in deep discussion. Soulless words hung in the air as the three neighbours suddenly spoke to each other properly for the first time. Words linked them together like invisible glue. Nervous laughter sent invisible words flying. And then the idea came … they would write another Sandra novel, together. A happy ending flickered behind their eyes as they shook hands.
On the other side of the world, Sandra sat before her laptop as words rewired her brain. She laughed as her fingers played the keyboard like a piano, an inaudible music like frozen ideas waiting to melt. And one day they would, one day the novel would be published, making fictional neighbours Cyril, Daphne and John famous. Sandra laughed again, as she described the Victorian tenement with the residents who knew so little about each other. Of course the building would be haunted by the ghost of a Victorian writer, an unpublished would be Dickens who whispered in the ears of her characters. Sandra stopped typing and picked up the leaflet next to her. Brain chips to enhance cognitive faculties. If it helped her write better, then why not? Sandra laughed as words once more played together on her screen, dominoes falling in to place, the crazy patterns of her mind.
Words whispered in the wind like ghosts. Somewhere far away, a writer hunched before a screen and laughed. Words pounded inside like demented drummers. Stories that knew no end and had lost their beginning, fiction fingering lives that would be known, the words of lost souls screaming in the night. Stories would come, a written word that would last forever.
Tessa was born on a still spring night, in a time-tarred barn. Her first memory, at a week old, was of stars through a broken roof, pins of light in the night, a pin cushion of the gods. I want to go there, she thought feebly, away from these ugly siblings. I want to go to one of the lights, I want to be free.
Tessa’s first few weeks were spent sleeping in the hay, or exploring the field next to the barn. She cuddled with her feline family to keep warm at night, but avoided them in the day. She was different, and she knew it.
One day a strange cage appeared in the field, with tasty food inside. However it became the taste of freedom denied. Tessa was locked inside the cage, no way out. Frantic with the desire to escape these grey bars, Tessa gazed at the stars in the sky. Please help me.
The next day a lady abruptly arrived and seized the cage. Tessa hissed in alarm. She was placed in a strange vehicle which began to move. The day descended to the depths of a cat’s despair. Tessa meowed, willing the stars in the sky to reappear. Finally, the vehicle stopped. A huge building confronted her, as Tessa’s cage was seized once more. A fat middle-aged man surveyed them from the door.
“A black and white kitten! Just what the doctor ordered!” Tessa liked the man straight away, knowing that a new life awaited, several purrs ahead.
The man, Derek, adored her. She listened as he composed music, purring in accompaniment. He told her that he had never known inspiration as prolific until she entered his life. Of course, she did not understand his words, but she purred anyway. Somehow, she knew that she was helping him. And somehow, he knew that she was special. But he did not realise how special.
Tessa would paw at Derek’s feet when he did not pay attention to her for a while. He would chuckle, declaring, “This cat keeps me on my toes!” Tessa purred in reply. She began to feel that she was her owner’s protector, his health in her paws, his well-being in a flick of her whiskers. Sometimes she felt compelled to follow him around the house, just to make sure no harm came to him. It was almost as if … she was waiting for something to happen.
Then one night, she had a dream. In the morning, Tessa was not there, bed empty, food bowl untouched. Derek searched everywhere for her. But she never returned.
In Tessa’s dream, she saw a man – a different man, but somehow she knew it was Derek. He was in a room full of children, pointing at a large black board with white letters on it. But something bad was going to happen. She knew it. That was when she did it for the first time. The Jump.
One minute she was observing the man while she slept. The next second she was there, really there, in the classroom with the teacher. The schoolkids looked at her like they had never seen a cat before. But there was one boy she had her eye on. The dark energy emanated from him.
Tessa ran and bit his leg. In alarm, the boy dropped something from his hand. A knife.
“He was going to throw that at you Mr Castle!” one of the children shouted.
Mr Castle retrieved the knife, and flushed while a look of trepidation dimmed his eyes.
At the end of the school day, he carried Tessa home. She was very happy living with Mr Castle (Derek in different clothes) until … another dream.
She saw him. Derek with another face, with different clothes. He was lying in a ditch with other men, and somehow she knew that the ditch was called a trench. He was in mortal danger, she understood as her heart thudded hard at the thought. She jumped … and was there. By the man lying in the ditch, the man who was about to die. She howled hideously, her voice her only weapon. “This is no place for a cat!” he picked her up and began to walk. Behind him, artillery fire felled his colleagues. He looked back in shock, his frozen heart breaking through ice as tears formed in his eyes. His friends. He held the cat who had saved is life as if he would never let go.
But Tessa had other ideas. Her next mission was massaging her mind. She jumped from his arms … and back in time to 1597, to a witch being hunted for trial. It was Derek, dressed in women’s clothes and with a female smell, but Derek nonetheless. She was cowering in her tiny cottage as men broke down the door. Tessa knew she did not have much time to help. She didn’t know what witch trials were, but she knew this woman was in mortal danger. Tessa looked in her eyes and screamed with all the cat telepathy she could muster “HIDE!”
The woman disappeared with the grace of a cat. As the angry men entered, they looked around in alarm. “A cat! She’s turned herself in to a cat! She really is a witch!”
Tessa was violently grabbed. She hissed in anger and pain. Then used all her might to … do the special jump.
She found herself in a very strange place, with large windows looking out on stars. Ahead, a man spoke to a wide room full of people. It was Derek, in uniform and of course with a different body. But she would know him anywhere.
The man suddenly stopped speaking. He had noticed her.
“A cat!” he laughed. “We have a stowaway on the ship! I like it! A sign! When I first enrolled in space academy, I encountered a cat at the door of the school, a lucky black cat like a sign of good luck. I saw the cat again the day I graduated. Is this a sign? A validation of my intent to arrive in peace rather than taking a more hostile stance? Somehow I know it is.”
Tessa purred. She could feel it, destiny shifting beneath her paws. Whatever she came here to do, she had achieved it. But this place was strange. Time to jump again.
But she could not do it. The jump energy evaded her. She did not understand the concepts of time travel and reincarnation. But she knew she had a gift, and that the different people she had encountered had all been versions of the first Derek, her Derek. But the real Derek, the owner who had loved her so much, was many years and star systems behind her now. She could not return. The gift was gone, dimmed by the bright stars all around. This was her time now.
I am in the stars, she thought feebly, I am free. Only it no longer felt like freedom. Destiny’s paws had dealt an unkind blow. She was here forever. Time to enjoy herself, time to flirt with freedom, to taste just the one life as others knew it. It was time to be Tessa.
So she stared at the stars, and prayed for a freedom that could not come. Like a mouse in a huge field, you could chase it relentlessly, but it would forever evade capture. Some mice have luck; some cats have nine lives; some cats have dreams that never end.
Annabel’s fingers paused, resting on the keyboard as her head caught up, panting, with her imagination. She had found the golden password to unleashing creativity. At times she felt as if she were turning in to the old woman, the narrator of her novel. In her sleep, she dreamt with the subconscious of another.
Annabel fingered her fiery auburn hair and sighed. Tears formed in her green eyes, doors to a writer’s mind, simple and profound married to a mix of future plots.
The fictional Francis had achieved a worthwhile life; of course, like Annabel, a teacher, rising to headmistress and gently inspiring generation after generation. However Francis’ job was merely a futile flirtation at meaning to life. All she wanted was to fill the void left by her dead husband.
Annabel lifted her fingers and began to type. She owed it to Francis, an invisible debt to an imaginary friend who lived only within the stark black times new roman characters on her screen. She owed it to herself, for the heart that cried inside for something more. She owed it to no one.
The laptop purred beneath her fingers, a hidden world behind its screen, a mutating mind on standby.
Larry laughed out loud. The three other Web Unweaved members joined him, evil in empathy.
“It shouldn’t be so easy. So many idiots, they lock their front door every day when they go to work, but have no idea how to protect their computer, inviting burglary in the virtual world by nothing more than sheer stupidity.”
Alec joined in. “Imagine using the same password for ALL your accounts. The children of the world have been let out after dark. Idiots!”
Alec’s ginger unkempt hair swayed in time to his chuckles, a halo of glee.
“What’s the target tonight?” Larry was serious again. He loved this game. He was in it to win. Redundancy had been the joker card for him, leading to a tomorrow of crime, a dark tunnel to virtual pennies and victorious punishment.
He smiled once more. Revenge on the world, so sweet, his heart coding in time to his thief’s fingers. For some things, there was Mastercard. For everything else, the rich spoils of cybercrime. A game with no end square; he would just keep on going round the board, clutching his get out of jail card. It shouldn’t be this easy.
The ipad came alive to the crunch of crime, an innocent accomplice within an invisible net.
*
Francis knew sleep would evade her tonight, an elusive criminal that could not be caught. She was in a game with no rules, designed by a madman. The password to peace deleted.
His name was James. A fleeting romance swept aside by a fierce Mother Fate. He never returned from the Second World War. She had known him so little, a mere shadow, a cobweb of dusty memory stitched in to fantasy, a character in an unread novel.
She had started to write a romance, their lives as they could have been. So much fun at the end of her biro pen. She could be who she wanted to be, believe her own fantasy, breathe its lies and hide from the biggest lie of all: that she was dying.
Annabel stopped typing, a smile dying on her lips at the thought of writing Francis’ romance. She herself had never married, but her first love was still there, a prisoner in the stone dungeon of her heart. One day she would remember, but not now.
The laptop waited for her fingers to connect again, purring with hidden promise, silent witness to the story.
*
Larry smiled. Life should not be this fun. Effortlessly he unlocked online accounts, entered another’s virtual world and, invisible, invincible, stole their banking details. So easy, so much fun.
A click of his mouse and he was there. Behind the badly locked door, its flimsy password falling off as he knocked. Words appeared, another world, espionage uncovering an enigma.
Francis held the notepad to her heart as if it could save it from breaking. Invisible, inside lived James. Their love raged through its pages, a fire uniting the past and present, fantasy and reality. Her cancer, her impending death, all burned to ashes by the hungry flames. A love that would burn forever, through all time and no time, alive in the written word.
Larry gulped. He had not seen this before. An unborn novel before his eyes. This could be interesting. He read on.
Francis continued to write, words dancing like deranged ballerinas, pirouetting their way in to the plot and choreographing a better ending. The story had taken over from real life.
Perhaps this was where she would go when she died, the heaven of her story, her own little world.
Pain shot up her middle, and she groaned. But the story did not stop, words forming a river, running through her body and drowning the pain.
Annabel paused. Was her story making sense? Thank goodness no one was looking over her shoulder, reading the infant book as it birthed from somewhere deep in her mind, a labour of literary fire.
Larry watched as the words halted. This was fun no more.
Annabel recommenced typing. This would not be fun much longer. The story could not have a happy ending.
It would stop like her own life: at a dead end. The difference was that Francis’ story really would stop, a tragedy and romance intertwined. Perhaps she should attempt the ending now, before she changed her mind.
She opened a new Word document and saved it as “the end.”
Francis lay still as stone. She could feel her fantasy world, so close. Sometimes she wondered if she had died already, but then she would wake to shooting pain, a grim reminder of the ugliness of reality. But her heart was already somewhere else, beating in her make believe world.
She had written the ending to her romance two days before. “James and Francis sat on the riverside together, arms intertwined. A tangible silence spoke of all the words unsaid. The mute words of a phantom future, the dream beating in their hearts. They watched the river winding towards its future, towards an ending that never came, time that looped and looped as the river just went on going. Perhaps this could be their future, an infinity that just drifted slowly on, healing waters of a tomorrow that would never be born. Perhaps this was all that is, that ever would be. Perhaps their river would never dry, a story that would sing forever from the pages of a long lost romance. They could feel their forever, it was now, it was here. Love would vanquish all tomorrows and turn them in to this perfect today, a day that danced in an eternity where the stars wait for a tomorrow that never comes.”
Francis closed her eyes. Her body pulsed with pain, an unruly teenager that would not allow peace. She breathed deeply and calmly as she fell asleep. Then she was there, with James on the riverbank. Her body was young, the twenty year old she had been when he went to war. She laughed at the absurdity of being there, after all these years reunited, even if it were only a dream. And as her sleeping self laughed, her body relaxed, taking its last breath. Peace painted her face with indelible make-up. In the fantasy world, she continued to laugh. And then she was really there, looking at a river, wondering where it was going – where she was going. “Francis.” She turned. It was James, just as he had looked last time she had seen him. She smiled, and in her dreams eternity bloomed, a flower that would never die.
The still face of the old lady did not stir, as the clock in the room seemed to tick louder. It was all time, it was no time, it was her time. It was the ending that comes to us all.
Annabel stopped typing, a smile on her face. Invisible eyes read her words, as a hidden heart began to beat with love.
Weeks went by. Finally, the novel was finished. But was it any good? She was so glad that no one else had seen it so far.
She would leave it for a week and then let the editing begin. A sense of accomplishment enfolded her. She had actually written a novel!
*
She had actually written a novel! Larry could not stop thinking of this unseen woman he had so relentlessly spied upon. Slowly, an idea formed in his head. His laptop confronted him, proclaiming hidden possibilities. He laughed.
He opened “the end” and began to type.
Francis lay still as stone. She could feel her fantasy world, so close. But she must get up. Today was the beginning of her new experimental treatment. A new cancer drug trial, and she had been only too happy to sign up. What harm could it do? She was dying after all.
She attended the clinic and was given the bright orange pills, the colour of mini suns. Perhaps they would burn her cancer cells.
As the weeks went by she began to feel better. Then came the tests. It really was a miracle! The cancer was in remission.
Six months later, she was free of cancer.
She had also finished her novel. It went on to become a best-seller. Her memories of James receded. Perhaps one day she would see him. But not yet. There was still too much of life left to enjoy.
A happy ever after beckoned.
Larry laughed, stroking his beard. He was in this to win. He checked Annabel’s letters folder, and googled all the literary agencies there to find out which was the most prestigious. Hopefully they would be easy to hack.
*
Annabel submitted a final query email with a smile on her face. Her manuscript was en route to several literary agencies! She should don the rejection-warming jacket, she knew, but she could not resist daring, just daring, to hope.
She walked home with a spring in her step. Let the writer’s game begin, please let her win the password to publication!
*
Julie glanced through “A War Romance” with slowly dimming interest, and then chucked it on to the slush pile. “Next!”
Two days later, she was surprised to receive an email from the author, apparently delighted to work with the Writers and Wonders agency. She checked her sent emails. It was there, clear as writer’s block and just as annoying. She had emailed an acceptance, obviously by mistake. Oh dear. She retrieved the novel from the slush pile. They would make this work, with a bit of re-editing.
*
The police van slid up to Larry’s house. He had been waiting for it; he had dropped his get out of jail card some time ago.
*
Annabel jumped up and down. She was going to be published! Francis had won in the end, her story would be known.
*
The laptop hummed its quiet lullaby, but there was no one to hear. Code cracked silently behind its screen. A novel published that a world wanted to hear; a computer career that died with a decisive good deed. Inside a book flicked its pages to a new ending, but there was no one to see. The invisible web breathed, and distant dreams were born.
The trees moved in time to the music of the city. The moan of car engines, the shriek of seagulls, and anonymous voices on the wind, laughing, crying, the teasing tone of life.
They held hands in silence. It felt so good to breathe in the pure vitality of nature, the kiss of the sun on their cheeks.
Finally Mark spoke. “They will never destroy this park. It is our heritage.”
Gilly squeezed his hand tighter. “You haven’t heard of the plans then …”
“Oh, I’ve heard of them all right,” scoffed Mark with a humourless grin. “But it will not happen. No, this park will survive us all.”
They rose as one. Leaving the park, they did not notice the rot at the foot of the trees, their lower leaves yellow, their life force slowly leaking away …
A cold wind rustled through their branches, snatching the dying leaves, whispering of cruel decay.
Mark and Gilly, their wrinkled hands closely entwined, surveyed the scene with amusement.
“Didn’t I say, all those decades ago, that the park would survive us all?” Mark had a twinkle in his eye.
“Yes, but you hardly meant like this…” Gilly gestured at the scene before them.
In the twilight chill a large crowd had gathered on Union Street, facing Aberdeen’s civic square in eager anticipation. Before them, on a makeshift platform at the edge of the square, the City Provost smiled down. “Tonight,” he proclaimed with fire in his voice, “we see the resurrection of a piece of this great city’s history. This will be a night to remember – I assure you all that you will not be disappointed. As many of you know, 50 years ago we built a civic square on the site of a former city garden. Today we have a world class civic square to be proud of. A unique design featuring a variety of innovative features, our civic space quickly became the envy of the world. During the first five years following its completion, Aberdeen’s tourist trade increased one hundred fold. Internationally acclaimed, our civic square acted as a magnet to the world. No state visit to the UK was complete without a day in Aberdeen. And this continues to this current day, although now our country is covered with replica civic squares. As city trees began to die of an infamous but as yet unidentified disease, it was a natural and easy decision to replace urban green spaces with concrete public areas. Yes, Aberdeen became the pioneer of our times…
“But enough of history. Why are we here this crisp Autumn evening? Of course you all know … But humour me, because I like the sound of my own voice, and I want to tell you anyway! When we decided to mark the occasion of the Square’s fiftieth anniversary, we thought long and hard, but slowly the answer became obvious. We looked through our archives and were enthralled by the beauty of the former Union Terrace Gardens. With cutting technology on our side, we decided to recreate Union Terrace Gardens in all its glory. Yes in 3D technicolour, computer graphic imagery of the majestic trees and the bowl shape of the garden, will reign supreme each night in Aberdeen. So we will have a civic square by day, and a city garden by night … I am so excited, so without further ado I now switch on the new Aberdeen city gardens!”
A sigh rose from the crowd as a magical silver night-time garden appeared before them. “Is this what you hoped it would be?” murmured Gilly.
“Better,” said Mark with his eyes transfixed. “It is so long since there has been a tree anywhere in this city … I had almost forgotten what they looked like. But this … although not real, so so beautiful. Yes, in the end, the gardens lived on. As I always said they would.”
Behind the couple two men slid away.
“So what do you make of it?” asked the taller, hooded man.
“Very impressive. Everyone will want one. A virtual garden. All the countless planets that have no trees … they will pay very good money for something like this.”
“Yes,” agreed the first man. “Aberdeen never fails to deliver. I first visited this city fifty years ago, when they created the civic square, which is now my best-selling product of all time. There are some galaxies which still haven’t heard of it, of course … but with the right sales pitch, eventually I am certain Aberdeen Civic Square will have been exported to the whole universe. If only these poor human fools knew! Fortunately intergalactic law does not recognise human intellectual property rights. No, Earth will not see a penny out of the trillions they have made for us … and , to be honest, very soon they will see nothing at all, ever again, the way this planet is going. More trees dying every day, soon there will be none, and that, my friend, will cause the extinction of the entire human race. Trees are inextricably linked to human biology and to oxygen, in ways which even the greatest scientists of this world do not comprehend. Yes, one day, another ten years even, they will all be gone. But there’s no time for sentiment in business. A de-populated Earth will become a top tourist destination. To see the pyramids, the wondrous architecture, the real Aberdeen Civic Square … yes, there is a whole holiday industry just waiting to happen.
“But the civic square. We must come back in daylight so you can fully appreciate its greatness. From the crystal caves, little rooms filled with magnificent crystals, the perfect meditation chambers, to their giant Harry Potter chessboard complete with life size characters, to the children’s wall where the latest primary school art is displayed, to the underground restaurant with a secure glass roof (yes you can see people walking above!), and every table features a different menu from a specific period of history … Education meets culture meets art meets inspiration, the civic square is truly unique. Which is why, of course, I am a rich man. So many worlds want their replica square. I have a lot to thank Aberdeen for.”
**
Another fifty years on, and Earth was a changed planet. The souls of the trees had departed in despair, their centuries long mistreatment taken its toll. With all trees gone, the human race gradually died of incurable lung disease.
Now all that was left … was a multi-galactic theme park. And pride of the tour was, no less, Aberdeen Civic Square.
The virtual Union Terrace Gardens, as predicted, became a universal best-seller. The largest 3D version of the Gardens was on Planet Zantana. Tourists from all neighbouring planets came to appreciate its beauty, many never having seen a real live tree in the flesh.
And they wept tears as they contemplated the fate of the trees on Planet Earth.
**
Mark and Gilly walked through Union Terrace Gardens holding hands.
“I once said,” mused Mark, “that these gardens would never die. And I was right.”
“But darling,” said Gilly softly. “Have you forgotten? These gardens are not real. They were created by our minds. Nothing we see has any substance…”
“Of course,” agreed Mark. “We are in heaven, and through the love in our hearts Union Terrace Gardens will live forever. In the end, we won.”
Eternity embraced them, in a world that could never die.
Mark squeezed Gilly’s hand more tightly. They continued to walk, as the spirits of long deceased birds sang in the trees. In the perfect world of dreams, all of nature was at peace.
**
On Planet Zantana, a breeze whispered in the computer generated Union Terrace Gardens. Slowly, raindrops began to fall. But there was no rain on this planet. The water was tears, the tears of the soul of Earth’s rainforests, crying for peace, and for a paradise lost forever.
Father Christmas grinned like a ghoul. A full December on Planet Earth! He gathered snow in his hands, throwing a snowball in to the air. Let’s get the party started.
As an Angel of the Fun Fraternity, Santa spent most of the year in the vast heavenly tourist resorts – in return for one month of work each December. Due to the intricacies of time travel, he could travel the whole world six times over on Christmas Eve night, the hardest working eve of the year.
However, he feasted his merry way through the rest of December, earthly delights a pleasurable payment for his festive errands. Santa opened a can of coke and drank with the thirst of a desert dweller, a smile of snowy satisfaction on his face. Coca cola, there was no other earthly treat like it.
Again this year he based himself in Scotland, in a remote cottage overlooking a tapestry of fields stretching to a mountain on the horizon, rising to the sky like a giant hand reaching upwards from the earth. Like someone begging for a can of coke, opined Santa.
Snow fell like Christmas confetti, turning the world in to a white desert. Santa opened another can of coke. Then he had an idea. He loved stone circles, in fact had spent the previous week visiting as many as possible. Today, he would build a snowman stone circle with a difference … each snowman would hold a can of coke.
Santa set to work, a chuckle in his throat and a giggle in his heart. Eight snowmen formed a circle in the field nearest his cottage, eight (empty) cans of coke in their hands. It was a feat to make the cans stick, so he used a little Fun Fraternity heavenly glue magic.
The next day, cars began to stop at the field. Soon, pictures danced over social media like snowflakes in a blizzard.
Santa laughed, his cheeks red and his old grey eyes twinkling. Then he pondered on a dreadful prospect … the day the snowmen melted. His eyes lit up with mischief. It was against the rules, but hey why not use a little more fun fraternity magic. He opened another can of coke, then added a few drops of a green elixir. He chuckled as he sprayed the snowmen.
Now back to work, he told himself sternly. He grabbed some gifts and harnessed the reindeer. Should he employ his cloak of invisibility? Of course, he had already broken too many rules this year.
On Boxing Day, Santa lingered in the snowman stone circle, saying his goodbyes with a twinkle in his eye. “I will see you next year,” he softly whispered. Then he was gone.
That day, the snow began to melt. The fields shone in fresh green … and small mounds of snow stood at the foot of clear crystal quartz snowmen, crystallised coke cans in their hands. The crystal men shone in the winter sun, their red scarves fluttering in a bewitched breeze. Soon the breeze would turn in to a social media blizzard of disbelief. The quartz snowmen were famous.
Two thousand years later, a group of tourists regarded the quartz snowmen circle with impatient interest. They were keen to know its secrets.
“Little is known about the origin of this unique stone circle, which has survived largely intact for many hundreds of years. An interesting feature is the cans of coca cola, a popular drink in the 21st century but now like its recipe lost in the winds of time. This is one of the most visited stone circles of the UK, its mystery and sense of something beyond human comprehension never fails to beguile tourists. Now …”
An irate tourist interrupted, their hands gesticulating wildly. “Is there coke residue in that can? Surely we could analyse it and recreate the ancient drink?”
And so it came to pass that a two thousand year old soft drink became fashionable once more. With its re-emergence, another legend appeared from centuries of retirement: Santa Claus. He circled the globe that Christmas with traditional gifts from the past. The world was entranced by the mystery presents that appeared in every house, on every street, in every town. Could the historic myth of Santa Claus be real? Or was it all an elaborate hoax?
Meanwhile, Santa sipped a can of coke inside his quartz snowman stone circle. In the morning, a mound of unopened coca cola cans astonished early morning dog walkers. They helped themselves to a couple each, bewildered by the magic in the air. Another day, another mystery … but the most magnificent Christmas ever.
May coca cola heat your heart this winter and every winter. And may your Christmas be warm, wondrous, and with all your wishes coming true.
Aberdeen’s air hummed with purrs and promise. The majestic Cowdray Hall stone lion crouched on his pedestal, ready to jump but frozen like a feline future in ice. A poem in granite, the silent stone beat of his heart whispered in the wind, heard only by the seagulls above.
Scuplted as a war memorial in 1925, the wisdom of a century glistened in the lion’s still granite eyes. As the festival of street art called Nuart simmered in the summer streets, the lion stared silently on a city stitched with poetic paint. Rain ran down his face like tears, a hidden song in his eyes struggling to break free.
Night descended like a blanket from heaven, cloaking the city in mystery. The lion blinked, as impossible ignited behind his eyes. Then slowly he rose, sniffed the air and leapt effortlessly from his plinth. He walked regally along Union Terrace. Drunken revellers pointed and smartphones flashed, recording a reality in freefall.
The lion entered Union Terrace Gardens, the lighting above sparkling on his granite back. He found the leopard statue, and touched his head gently to its forehead. Silver light shot in to the sky like a shooting star in reverse.
A perfect image of the two statues kissing hit social media like a cannonball the next day, however was quickly decried as deepfake footage. The lion, back on his plinth, stared silently ahead, secrets like granite gems in his heart.
Several weeks later, the Aberdeen football club won a home match at Pittodrie Stadium. At midnight, a stone lion slowly walked round the stadium, then crouched still as frozen snow while again drunken revellers happily snapped photographs. A social media storm rained the next day, a torrent of footage and a heavy rain debate on whether or not the images were real.
The lion became a legend. After every match won by Aberdeen, he was there at midnight at the stadium. And every time a cruise ship docked at Aberdeen for the day, a lion statue would be waiting at the port, an Aberdeen hello that defied history and flirted with reason.
Known as the Secret Statue of Aberdeen, he gained his own Instagram account. Aberdeen’s tourist trade exploded like a supernova. The lion statue became one of the most famous monuments in the world.
The next summer, a Nuart festival yet again painted hues of hope across the city. The lion rested in the sun, an invisible smile behind his stone eyes. At night, he wondered the city. Art danced with adventure, as a portrait of impossible crossed the streets. The lion headed to Duthie Park. Once there, he circled the granite statue of the greek goddess Hygeia, placing his forehead on each of the recumbent lions at its foot.
Slowly and one by one the four tiny lions began to move. Together, the feline fivesome slid silently through the park, then to the River Dee beyond. Magic melted like mute meows in the air, a roar in a night that did not hear under a full moon that did not care.
However the war memorial lion cared very much, for his city … and for the future of all felines. A vision of forest teased his brain, as a wildcat called telepathically for help.
In the morning, the lion was gone. His plinth was empty.
A social media storm hit the world, with thundering shock and lightning lament. #comebacklion went viral.
The lion did not return.
However, after several days a new statue appeared at dawn in his place. A Highland wildcat.
The people of Aberdeen flocked to see the new city attraction, disbelief and delight dancing hand in hand. The wildcat cat hovered on its haunches and stared ahead with still stone eyes.
Beautiful and bewitching, this statue now became the number one tourist attraction of Aberdeen. And come the tourists did, in their thousands.
Wildcats were suddenly the feline fashion of the day. The critically endangered felines became the top celebrity charity trend, gifts to the Highland wildlife park breeding programme flowing in freefall.
Then one evening, another group of drunken revellers witnessed the stone wildcat walking confidently down Union Street. She walked through the leafy suburb of Ferryhill, and joined the lion clan in Duthie Park. Together they frolicked on the grass, free as wild felines and wise as the stone they were made of.
More and more tourists flocked to Aberdeen like birds of photo prey. International interest in the Scottish wildcat roared like a lion on the hunt. Aberdeen had birthed another wonder of the world.
Miles away under a soft moon, a stone lion stood silently at the top of a mountain, surveying the world like an ancient guardian. Seen from a corner of your eye and then gone, as his legend spread he became known as the Wildcat Warrior. Always there, near the kittens in the forest, watching over them like a feline angel in stone armour. Glimpsed from afar, then gone as soon as you grew near. A ghost of the forest, a living myth that eluded the eyes, a shadow always behind you, seen and then gone like a memory of distant childhood, feathers of fancy in the wind.
The lion roared softly, staring at the moon like at a long-lost feline friend. Whispers of wildcat wisdom purred in his stone heart. Forests spread below like a garden of the gods. The lion roared again, however there was no man to hear. Only the magic of the night, and the stars above, silent witness to a miracle.
The lion slowly walked down the mountain. The wind whispered in the trees below, wildcat secrets in the air. Somewhere a cat meowed. Above, the moon shone like a stone lion on fire. Below, a lion shimmered in the moonlight, a legend on legs, a myth in granite. He entered the forest, and disappeared. All was still, the only sound leaves blowing in the wind, stray souls seeking their home. Enchantment faded as the moon slipped behind a cloud.
In a city many miles away, a stone wildcat shone in the moonlight. Small stone lions played below her plinth. She purred a feline poem, knowing that the wisdom of wildcats would one day heal the world. The moon continued to glow brightly, lone witness to the wonders of the invisible world below.
Far away, a lion roared again, and then a silence like the sleep of millennia cloaked the land.
Skavrana sighed, her eyes drinking in a sunset bright with hues of an unreachable heaven. Its light glittered in her eyes, deep green jewels in her thin and beautiful face. Her fiery auburn hair glowed in the light. Pinks and oranges accosted her with the poetry of colour.
She could have come here just for this, the stunning sunset over the sea, the sound of waves dancing on the shore, the blue ocean embraced by the sunlight above.
However there was so much more to her mission today.
Slowly she walked in to the sea, clicking her fingers as her metallic silver trousers turned in to a mermaid tale. She swam in to the ocean as if it were her home.
And perhaps it was. Skavrana came from the planet Oceanus, a world dominated by the sea with sparse islands interrupting the expanse of water. Her race could breathe underwater and on land alike.
Today she would use sea energy to strengthen her spirit and rouse her resolve. Earlier that day, her crystal bracelet had turned sea green. A message awaited.
Skavrana was a Superhero Saviour, a warrior spirit sent all over the universe to assist emerging superpower souls, usually sired by forbidden romantic relationships between Oceanus space explorers and other species.
Today the message in her bracelet informed her that, “you have a new and perhaps the most momentous mission yet. Superpower energies have been detected on Planet Perturbed, many galaxies away. There have been no scheduled missions to Perturbed, it is deemed too dangerous. The superhuman being there is an anomaly, but undoubtedly needs urgent help with their emerging power.”
This would be Skavrana’s most dangerous mission yet. However, a superpower existed on a code red planet. Now that was either a blessing or a curse for the poor individual concerned.
Skavrana sighed as the sea caressed her body like a warm blanket. Time to prepare her spacepod. She had never travelled to the galaxy of Planet Perturbed let alone the planet itself, however knew it to be one of the most beautiful stars in the cosmos, a paradise that its insane inhabitants polluted and abused. The planet had its own sun and moon, and how she looked forward to channelling them.
For this was Skavrana’s superpower. The ability to channel sun and moon energy, and to use it to heal. The cosmic rays strengthened her body and boosted her brain. Moon energy acted as an anti-aging elixir. Her skin did not age, although her eyes grew ever deeper green as wisdom whispered within.
In her saviour role, Skavrana carried sun and moon energy and its secrets across the universe, gifting a connection to this energy to the most deserving emerging superheroes.
Sometimes her head felt like it must shatter in a thousand pieces, a mirror struck by light so bright it transmuted time itself.
The next day, with many moons in her wake, the enticing seas of Planet Perturbed shone in moonlight below. The ship’s superpower scanner beeped shrilly, like a bird keen to fly free. But how could this be? The scanner had located the superhero right here, in the middle of an ocean. With no ships to be seen on the still seas, how could a land dwelling human be here? Planet Perturbed was indeed a perplexing world.
Or Earth, as they called it locally.
And then it leapt in the air and Skavrana’s heart sighed like a wave hitting a rocky shore. The ship scanned the mighty beast, and proclaimed: Dolphin.
So Planet Earth had given birth to a dolphin superhero. This was an anomaly in action, an impossibility come true.
The dolphin circled her ship as it hovered above the smooth waters below. Skavrana climbed on to the deck, and began to sing, a poem of moonlight, a sonnet of sea music. The dolphin swam towards her, and then was there, beneath the ship, mirth in its eyes and a smile in its heart. Skavrana hummed softly, as déjà vu massaged her mind. Had she dreamt of this moment? It felt like time had stopped, and perhaps it had.
“I am Moonlight.” The voice was a whisper in her head, a soft sea breeze in her heart. The dolphin knew how to communicate telepathically, a skill which she also possessed. It came in very useful in her various missions.
“I am here to help, you have very strong superpowers.”
The dolphin whistled in her head. “I communicate with the spirit of the ocean, I am attuned to sea consciousness and I wish to use my knowledge to help the world.”
Skavrana smiled. A dolphin with superpowers not that far removed from her own.
“I can help you, I can return with a larger ship and transport you back to my planet, a true paradise where you will be safe.”
The dolphin whistled softly in her head. “But this is my home, and more than that, I wish to pass my ocean wisdom to a human being who can do so much more with it than I can.”
The ocean sighed around them. Skavrana nodded sagely. “I can help you.”
So it came to pass that Moonlight drifted like an unseen dream from beaches to harbours to little islands, Skavrana not far behind with an invisibility cloak around her ship.
They both spied the boy at the same time. Ginger hair and green eyes sparkling in the sun, he held his hand in the water as a smile wrote friendly and fun on his face. A red faced guide on the tour boat pointed delightedly at Moonlight, and the boy looked towards them.
Moonlight leapt in the air, to the excitement of the boat crew. Then he gently swam towards them, like a lost dog finding its owner after many years. The boy laughed in delight as Moonlight let him touch him. Then it happened. A soft energy passed between them, like a wave rushing over your feet. The boy looked at Moonlight as somewhere inside he heard the sea sing.
Moonlight swam around the boat once more, and then was gone. Skavrana smiled, the moon in her heart beating strong. She would return to this planet with a larger ship, and then take Moonlight back to Oceanus with her. His superpowers were wasted on this dismal planet, on her home world he would prosper and above all be safe.
Meanwhile, the boy – Colin – could not stop smiling, liquid sunlight in his veins. That night, he dreamt he was in a middle of a large ocean, a small boat beneath him and indigo waves all around. A supermoon looked down, blessing him with silver light. And then the ocean began to speak.
“Tell my story, write the book of ocean lore, a tale of time, a manuscript of mighty wisdom. Tell the story that will heal this world.”
Colin turned over, as deeper dreams pulled him to the heart of the sea. And as he slept, the music of a thousand waves lit his mind.
Meanwhile, Moonlight arrived on Planet Oceanus. Under its three powerful blue moons, the sea shone brightly in the night, whispering in the still air like a baby trying to say hello to its mother for the first time.
Moonlight was gently released from the spaceship, and the ocean wrapped its strong hands around him like a new mother. He was safe now, that is what Skavrana had assured him. Safe … and forever free.
The moons above painted the ocean with blurred brushstrokes, bright shadows playing with the light and teasing the waves, the pattern of a living paradise. Indigo ink stitched swirls in the night sky, a tapestry of indelible dark and light.
Far far away in a winter soul world, a young boy Colin walked along a beach. The sea was in his head. He had written all night, a tale of love and loss, tears in his eyes as the souls of a hundred oceans whispered in his ears. Little did he know that his story would one day be published, and applauded by the environmental movement. But all that was in the future. For now, words continued to scratch Colin’s brain with an insistent cry of write, write, write!
Back on summer soul world Oceanus, Skavrana’s crystal bracelet turned green. “There is a merman superhero on Planet Perturbed.” Skavrana sighed. Perhaps she should buy a beachfront cottage on this planet, it looked like she would be spending much time there.
Meanwhile, as Colin walked along the beach his legs began to twitch. He look down, alarm shining like moons in his eyes. His legs were…turning in to a scaly tale! With a cry of grim abandon, he crawled to the sea and let it take him. The waters of tomorrow held him in their arms like a proud father. Somehow he knew that he could change back at any time. However just for now … he did not wish to. Strangely, he could suddenly breathe underwater. Were there more young people like him? How to find them? The strength of the sea powered his body as he swam further and further in to the ocean.
Skavrana sailed through the stars once more. A smile blossomed on her face like a spring flower. A merman, a soulmate for Moonlight. Deep inside, somehow she already knew it would be the ginger haired kid. And he would be the first of many. For it was time for the sea to heal Planet Perturbed. It was time for her own superpowers to team with Moonlight’s, a new world, a new galaxy, a new universe. Let the superpower march begin.
She was back on Planet Perturbed. The merman swam towards her ship, a smile floating in the young face like a leaf in a pond, not sure why it is there, and so easily blown away.
But just for today, they would smile together. Under a bright Earth moon, she laughed with a new friend. The ocean whispered beneath them as moonlight stroked its waters like a protective mother.
Just for today, the world slept under a moonlit blanket of peace.
And just for today, the song of the sea silenced the night.
The little boy fingered the photograph. The handsome man smiled eagerly at the camera, a person who time had erased.
Slowly, he crumpled it. There was a void in his heart that he did not understand. A memory of …
**
The future. Malcolm surveyed the group of assorted individuals, vying for an acceptable degree of eccentricity, and smiled with his fierce charm. He had found the writing group by accident, seeking for a new hobby and noticing their advert in the local library, on a flying 22nd century adverts screen. Creative writing, well that could be a nice little money-spinner.
He began to speak, savouring each corny word that he had written. It had been so easy to churn out the saccharin sentiment. Strangely, he had enjoyed it.
Chris woke up, saliva dried on his chin. His heart beat to the drums of disquiet. So much that he had done wrong in his life. A tear trickled down his parched skin, lacing his sagging cheekbones with the kiss of karma. This was it. He deserved every rag of remorse that now filled his head.
Tonight, the dream had been of childhood. That village idiot boy he had bullied. Regret roared in his heart. The pain of his actions painted new wrinkles on his face.
What would tomorrow’s dream be? What new horrors to relive?
His own misdemeanours weren’t the worst of it. Reliving the betrayal of others, the infidelity, the lies … the pathetic pretence of so called friends.
But while he dreamt, every day there were new wrinkles, and every minute he could feel it … his approaching end.
So it was … time to forgive.
Malcolm paused in his rendition. A slow smirk crossed his face. He enjoyed an audience, and this one was stunned. They didn’t like him, he knew that much, but maybe, just maybe, they were starting to respect him. He relished the silence, filled with unspoken applause.
As he caught Chris’ eye – the boring librarian type he had based his central character on, after all he had to dislike his fictional Chris to bombard him with such suffering – he began to read once more. The words danced from his lips. Inside he roared with insane laughter. But on the outside, he carried on calmly reading.
And now, in the future, there he stood, speechless, in a major bookshop as he gazed upon his finished masterpiece.
A sparkling jacket cover, an inspiring illustration of an old man clutching his heart. He read the biography inside. And re-read it, bile rising in his throat.
A Time to Forgive, screamed at him as he looked at the front cover.
His story, his inspiration, left unfinished as he succumbed to more and more overtime, the insane search for new career heights, his writing a forgotten dream in the cupboard of regrets.
But there it was, his book.
The cover winked at him nastily.
By Chris Thomson…
He had even kept his own name as that of the central character. That was how narcissistic the man was. Malcolm grimaced. Chris Thomson, lowly librarian turned bestseller. He would get what was coming to him…
Malcolm continued to stare at the novel jacket as a slow smile formed on his face. Of course, karma was fair, but revenge so much sweeter. Yes, it would be his … revenge. But how?
It took him a long time to figure out the perfect crime. But when it came to him, overtaking many other mediocre ideas, it was so inspired he almost took up a pen to write a new novel … and one he would finish this time. But no, his idea was too good for that. It must really happen.
Kenneth was the answer. His time travel technician friend. In 2162, time travel was highly classified, and used for the purposes of government research only. However he was sure that in the future a whole tourist industry would arise to take advantage of this emerging technology. At this point in time, the authorities were still nervous of the potential power inherent in time travel science.
However Kenneth had once promised him, over a Friday night bottle of wine, a peak in to the future if he so desired. He seemed excited. It transpired that Kenneth had seen the future himself, five hundred years ahead to be exact, however he would not speak about it. Some secrets, he confided, were too volatile to share.
But Malcolm did not need to go as far as five hundred years. No, just about 21 years would be perfect.
He thought of Chris’s sickening biography. “The proud father of 6 month old Amy …”
Amy would be his prize.
**
Malcolm had the easy conceit to realise that he was a handsome man. And a well-off one too, the plus side to becoming managing director of a small but prosperous marketing firm. The downside of course, was that due to his current work commitments he no longer found time to write … but he wouldn’t think about that. A dark shadow moved across his heart as he contemplated what could have been. The success that Chris now enjoyed…
But a smile vanquished the clouds on his face as he thought once more of revenge. Oh so sweet. The saccharin sweet of his novel, the candy corniness of Chris’ writing skills (or lack of).
Time travel beckoned his steel resolve with a claw-like grip.
It was over. His good looks and charm had seduced Amy instantly. And the added bonus was that he had really enjoyed his time with her.
Malcolm had taken sufficient cash with him (and thankfully no one commented on the date on his money) to secure an apartment for a month. It was four weeks of pure bliss. A better man than he would have fallen for the girl, she was so sweet. (Saccharin sweet, the clear offspring of her idiot father.) But not him. The steel resolve still held him with vice-like strength.
It was revenge he was really after, not romance.
As he took the time travel pill to return, he smirked with all his heart’s broken promises. He knew Amy would be devastated. All she would have left would be the photos of them together … the pictures he hoped Chris would eventually see. With supervised time travel now legal in two decades’ time, perhaps Chris would very quickly understand. And revenge would be his. He would have broken the heart of the man’s daughter. When he had asked Amy to marry him she had cried. Now she could cry for ever, for all he cared.
Kenneth had warned him about coming back. The risks were greater the longer you spent in the future. Generally, a maximum of 24 hours was recommended. Something to do with the way your thought forms integrated in to the time travel pill in your bloodstream. Malcolm had spent a total of 29 days in the future, but as he closed his eyes and allowed the pill to send him to sleep, he knew no fear. Telling the pill what date to send you to was a bit weird, however. He couldn’t believe it would really work, but as he mentally stated the date his eyes closed and he knew no more …
… Until he woke up to a sun-scorched day, lying in the park where he had chosen to time travel both times. Some landmarks never changed, and parks were an easy bet.
He smiled in the sunlight. He had done it.
Revenge was his.
**
It was later that the idea came to him. It was during a sleepless night when his thoughts, almost inevitably, turned to writing. It was still a dream of his, sleeping in his subconscious, occasionally rising from its slumber to scream … before the silence of sleep claimed it once more.
He had endured a few sleepless nights since his return from the future. He decided to ask Kenneth if insomnia was a side-effect of time travel.
But he had no time to think of that now, for the idea had him transfixed. He would write. That’s what he would do. He would write a novel about time travel revenge.
And Chris and Amy in the future … they would find out exactly what he had done.
His smirk was back. It lit up his face with a sludgy glow, a smile from hell.
Malcolm laughed.
**
As time ticked on, the novel progressed. He found he was writing later and later in to the night as sleep evaded him. When he did fall asleep, he was flung in to deep and vivid dreams.
Then one night he awoke from a nightmare. It had been a real incident, from many years before. When he had broken up with his first girlfriend, at school. He saw every contour of her pathetic little face in his dream, and sleeping tears rose in his eyes. He was amazed to find that his face was wet when he awoke. The pain pulsed through him, the memory of the injury he had inflicted. He shuddered.
Malcolm rose and walked to his bathroom. As he put on the light he gazed at himself in alarm. In the mirror, two wrinkles had etched themselves firmly in the otherwise youthful skin on his forehead. He shrugged. He was not getting enough sleep, that was the problem.
The next night, he dreamt of Felicity. She had been his first real love, and the excruciating agony of finding her with his best friend caused him to shriek in his sleep. He awoke shaking. As his mind calmed, the word came to him. Forgive.
That’s what he must do, he realised with cold certainty. Forgive those who had hurt him. Forgive himself, and his folly.
Another wrinkle was plastered across his face. Puzzled, he phoned Kenneth in some concern, to enquire in more depth about the side effects of time travel.
“It’s your thought forms,” explained Kenneth. “Whatever is concerning you, when you have the time travel pill in your bloodstream, can take on real substance. So if you’re worried about your weight for example, you may put on a few pounds. It’s something to do with the way the pill is synchronised to understand your thoughts. That’s how it can send you to any time period you choose.”
Malcolm swallowed hard. So what had he been thinking of? Of course…
Night and night the dreams came, and every morning there were new wrinkles. Malcolm aged about five years each day. He could hardly recognise himself anymore. He was cursed.
And still he wanted to forgive. It seemed so important now, so important as … he heard his inner clock ticking. This was it. He was living his novel. The cause of his revenge … it had become his life.
His new novel was finished. Accepted very quickly by a publisher – time travel was all the rage in the current market, now its reality was dawning – he knew, with chilling certainty, that he would not live to see it in print.
Malcolm had not gone to work in weeks. He could not let them see him like this.
He sat at home with his thoughts every day. Forgiveness obsessed him. For everyone who had ever hurt him … but most of all for him. He must forgive himself for the countless slights, the rarer rages, the selfish actions, always motivated for him, him, only him … He would forgive.
He had not dreamt of Amy yet. He knew when he did the pain would surely kill him.
So he sat at home and watched the months slip by as mere seconds, a river of time taking him nearer and nearer to …. the end of the novel.
And Chris lay down to sleep at last, with an expression of pure bliss on his face. He had forgiven everyone, there was no emotion left to explore. It was time. Forgiveness would free him, as the peace of death would erase every wrinkle from his face. And in death he would become complete…
**
The little boy showed the photo to his mother. “I found this,” he murmured. “It’s Daddy, isn’t it? Was he a bad man?”
Amy looked at him with a woman’s wisdom. “He was only a man, dear. Deluded, a fool … but I forgive him. I forgive him for everything. For I have you.”
As she hugged him, the photograph fell to the floor. A smile flowered on her face, as forgiveness lit up her heart.
**
Time to forgive, muttered Malcolm as he sank in to a deep sleep. Amy was walking towards him, and in his dream he found himself running, desperate to see her, to speak to her, to explain …
His sleeping brain slowly understood the truth. He had really loved Amy. Blinded by revenge, he had actually wanted to remain with her. Really, deep down.
In his dream she mouthed, “I forgive,” and held out her hands.
He no longer wanted to wake up. The dream was too sweet.
And as he died the dream became real. There was no turning back now…
Julie ignored the tears coursing down her cheeks and logged on to Facebook, forcing a smile as though there was anyone to see. The cancer diagnosis had been a mere two days ago, its invincible verdict sitting in her heart like a curse. Late stage cancer, the prognosis not good.
Julie still smiled as she checked on the Jane Austen Appreciation group. It always sucked several smiles in to her bloodstream, joy coursing through her veins like the words from her favourite Jane Austen novels. Words that were so more powerful and enduring than cancer.
A member called Jim Miles had posted: “Emma is the best novel ever. Discuss.”
Julie smiled, this was also her favourite novel. Of all time.
Furiously she began to type. Jim replied quickly. Half an hour later, they were still typing their virtual conversation. “Shall we take this to private messenger?” suggested Jim. “Yes,” agreed Julie.
And so began a formidable online friendship. As the days progressed, they analysed together every single Jane Austen novel. Julie forgot her illness as the online world claimed her brain.
Jim’s mind was a maze of literary appreciation, each path weaving to a centre of book treasure. She could chat to him for hours, unconscious of the time passing, immune to her internal clock counting down. Time stood still for Julie, the pain of cancer defeated by Jane Austen … and by Jim.
Facebook had delivered an online angel.
As Julie laughed at Jim’s latest literary joke, an idea itched in her brain. Was it a stupid thought … or could it be worth something?
Slowly, she typed her thoughts in to Messenger.
Why don’t we write a modern day Jane Austen novel.
She clicked send, then watched her blinking screen. The answer came with prompt enthusiasm.
That is a great idea.
So began a messenger brainstorm, ideas flung backwards and forwards like a literary tennis ball. A skeleton novel began to form limbs and brandish a brain.
Facebook Flirtation featured a modern day Emma who matched potential suitors through a Facebook group, asking tailored questions and then finding perfect partners, a romantic detective of the social media era.
Julie and Jim grew closer as they collaborated on the book, a romance budding like a rose in Julie’s chest. However as the rose bloomed, the cancer also spread, a malign flower spreading its leaves throughout her body. Pain pulsed inside, a nectar feeding the invasive plant within.
When she eventually met Jim in person, she could hardly walk anymore. A mere few weeks later, she was confined to bed. And it was there, as the days counted down to her curtain call that the finished novel arrived, published and packaged like a flower from heaven. Julie held Jim’s hand, as tears of regret stroked her cheeks. She held the novel, and tried to smile. She had gifted something to the world, final words that would soon be from beyond the grave.
Julie continued to hold Jim’s hand, as her eyes fluttered and she fell in to her final slumber. A rose in her heart pricked her soul, then wilted and died as she breathed no more.
Jim held her hand tighter. Their book was all he had left. He would treasure it.
And Emma logged in to Facebook, eager to find her new messages. It was time to give love a helping hand; it was time to water the roses of romance. The online garden of her mind bloomed with vibrant colour, caught in a cyberspace of hope, flowers of the future flirting under a sun that knew no night. Love would last forever, the perfume of paradise uttering its gentle hello to heaven.
The lone lady walked the crisps aisle in the convenience store, fingering the packs with frail fingers. Slowly, she chose a six pack, wrinkled hands sparkling with heart shaped jewels. A smile lit up an ancient face, a memory of a younger yesterday behind eyes that had seen too much. The old lady walked towards the checkout till, still smiling. For a love of good crisps survives time, a comfort to an aching heart. And what stories this heart could tell.
**
Brian’s heart furiously pumped blood through his body. He had just finished an early morning run. Pouring himself a water, he eyed the bag of Walkers ready salted crisps on his worktop. That would be a treat for later.
A little indulgence, a tonic that crunched to a place beyond his heartbreak, a happier world where crisps were free for all. A world where his wife of many years Stephanie, had not left him for his best friend.
Brian’s heart beat faster as he contemplated all he had lost. At least he still had his cars, they would not desert him. His second true love, a car mechanic by day, by night he worked on his hobby cars, mending the beating heart of their battered bodies.
Then his eyes returned to the bag of Walkers crisps, and he smiled. Slowly, he opened the pack. His smile faded as he regarded the crisp in his hand.
It looked exactly like half a heart, with a jagged cut on its straight side. It was a broken heart.
Tears pricked Brian’s eyes. Slowly, he placed the heart shaped crisp on his windowsill. He could not eat it. So the crisp lay there as the sun rose higher and then as night descended, kissing it with silver moonlight. It slept in silence, forgotten.
**
Melissa folded her knitting, its progress a thorn in her heart. She lacked the will to continue. Nothing enticed her excitement anymore. It felt as if life had ended when Michael left her, for none other than her hairdresser Anne. Life was cruel and as hard as cement.
She threw the knitting across the room, as the tears began to flow, a waterfall of regret. George Michael’s “Careless Whisper” played softly in the background, a sonnet of pain.
Absentmindedly, Melissa opened a pack of her favourite Walkers cheese and onion flavour crisps. A powerful pick me up, a remedy for rusted over romance.
Then she saw it, and her heart stopped for a moment. A perfect half heart shaped crisp, with a jagged edge where its other half should be. A broken hearted crisp.
Melissa laughed with little humour. She would keep this crisp. It summed up her mood perfectly, melancholy in potato art.
That evening, her friend Tina came over. “Look at this broken hearted crisp!” Melissa cried, delight tinged with distress in her eyes.
Tina’s eyes twinkled. “Let’s do a social media campaign to find the owner of the other half!”
“What?” exclaimed Melissa. “If there is another half, someone has eaten it by now. I’m the only idiot who would cherish a crisp and keep it!”
“But let’s try!” insisted Tina. “A social media campaign can’t do your florist shop any harm, in fact any promotion is good!”
So it came to pass that #brokenheartmate was born. To Melissa’s amazement, the hashtag began trending throughout the UK. And so the search for the second broken heart shaped crisp began.
**
Brian’s cleaner Wendy had almost finished her shift. His house was one of the best on her list, always tidy and no nasty surprises. She entered the kitchen, and stopped short in surprise.
A crisp shaped like half a broken heart lay on the windowsill.
Quickly, Wendy retrieved her phone and searched for the hashtag brokenheartmate. Before she knew what she was doing, she had uploaded a photo of the crisp. It was time for social media sundown.
**
Melissa could not believe her eyes. A heartbroken crisp to match her own.
Melissa and Brian’s friends persuaded them to meet. Brian drove from Glasgow to London, asking himself all the way what on earth he was doing.
They met in a coffee shop, surprised to like each other straight away, but laughing together that love at first sight had not occurred. However, their two crisps fitted together perfectly. Fate fingered their hearts as their brains said no.
They kept in touch and then met a few more times. Eventually, their flimsy fondness for one another turned in to enduring love. They had found their brokenheartmate.
**
One year later, their wedding day dawned to sunshine and joyful birdsong.
Melissa wore a white dress with a heart embroidered on its chest. Brian wore a kilt with a heart shaped sporran.
Before their altar lay a heart made of 20 red Walkers crisp packs, inlaid with blue cheese and onion packs, with a further inlay of red rosebuds, and their two original broken hearted crisps proudly in the middle.
Then the short service had concluded, and two broken hearts became one.
Later that evening, guest Shona sat alone at the bar eating a bag of salt and vinegar crisps. To her shock then simmering satisfaction, she found a half heart crisp, with jagged edges on its straight side. Recently single, Shona laughed. Did she too have a brokenhearted mate somewhere?
Nigel also found a brokenhearted crisp. He pocketed it, smiling. Later, dancing with Shona, little did either know about each other’s crisp shaped secret. However, they certainly knew that they liked each other very much.
Brian and Melissa departed later that night, in an open topped car overflowing with crisps. “Wherever they are going, they will not be hungry,” mused Shona.
Every guest’s goodie bag contained a bag of crisps, in addition to a heart shaped cookie. It looked like the guests would not go hungry, either.
**
The old lady slowly ate a bag of crisps, contemplating her long life. Her one true love had died two years previously, however they had shared decades of contentment. She chuckled, as she reflected on their honeymoon, days of unrivalled happiness asleep in her heart never to be woken up, a sweet slumber of forever.
She withdrew her hand carefully from the pack, looking at the crisp in her palm. It was an old habit.
Then the tears came. She was holding a half heart, jagged on the straight edge. Did it portend a better future, or just a piece of her past that would not die? Miracles unspoken murmured deep in her heart. The old lady smiled, wiping away her tears. Slowly her eyes closed as the honeymoon in her heart flew free.
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