The Time Traveller

Another one from the 'archives', also from the same 2007 notebook as the two previous stories and, like Underground Tigers, this was written on my commute.

The Time Traveller

He wished his train was a time machine and that he'd end up just over a month ago, but he would remember what he knows now.  He hopes that when he reaches his destination it is that place that he used to stay at, that small village he had begun to resent.
    How could a place blind him so much?  Was it selfishness on his part, the need to 'make something' of his life, to prove his parents wrong?  Why had he run so far?
    Now all he could do was listen to his life fall apart over the telephone.
    But in the underground there is no signal, it's almost like the conversations never happened, it's almost like nothing exists.
    He wills the train to go faster until that low hum and clatter of transportation rises into a high squealing pitch that only dogs can hear.  He hopes that the next stop will plunge him into daylight, that outside those windows he will see the familiar fields and trees of the countryside and not the old stale tiles of the Piccadilly line.
    Everyday he is reminded of everything he has lost and he is forced to trace the journey back, in his mind, toward the first domino that toppled.  He remembers how they met, it was hard not to in that town, but it stills feel miraculous, fateful.
    Where did this fog come from that clouded all of this from his mind for so long?  It's as if his past is flashing before his eyes, he sees each silly moment of the relationship pass by like billboards.  He sees haircuts, burnt suits, scrambled eggs, picnics in front rooms, beach bonfires, but he also sees how distant he was, how hurtful he had been and now he can hate himself for he sees that was not how he felt.  Well, that is not how he feels.
    He had pushed her away before and that time around his time machine had worked, it had been a coach then, perhaps that was it, he needed a smaller vessel?
    No, there is something tragically permanent about this time, something sickeningly inevitable.  It no longer feels like an emotion but a tumour, and for all the guilt it may incur he pities himself that he may curl up into a tiny ball and wither.
    Soon she will be far away and happy, her eyes will be opened to the optimism of a world without him, he thinks she knows it exists already and is eager to see what else it has to offer her.  This is why he needs a time machine.
    He has failed at this attempt of life, he has lost and the damage feels irreparable.  If the machine doesn't work then he will battle wearily on, but shall most probably be forced to watch from the sidelines, as if imprisoned in an invisible cage, as someone else lives the life he can now only dream of.
    He can envisage their first flat together, her and this better man, he can picture their furniture and dining set, their books and records, the view out of the window, he can smell his cooking and feel the way he kisses her cheek in the morning, he can sense the tender grip of his fingers curling round hers as they watch television, and he can hear her laugh at his bad jokes and silly voices, or when he does a puppet show with the teddy bears.
    Now he sees further into the future, as if floating over everything, detached from his body.
    He can see them making love, how warm their bodies are, how he holds her and she feels safe and special, touching her hands to his chest and being comforted by the distant drum of his heartbeat.  He can see the conception of their first child, it's a girl and they name it Freya like she always wanted.  They start looking for a house as the pregnancy begins to show, they're engaged now and soon after the child is born they'll be getting married.  The wedding will be held outside, it's a beautiful day, and her father and mother will love this man, they'll be as proud of him as if he were their own son.  Not long after there is a brother for Freya on the way, and the time-traveller watching overhead can hear her thoughts and, for the first time in years, she thinks of him.  The child is a boy and she remember what he would have called his son, but she dismisses this notion as quickly as it arrives and that is the last time she ever thinks of him.
    So that is all the time traveller sees before he is stirred by the unsteady rocking of the tube train, there is no lullaby and goodnight being whispered softly in his ears, yet he longs to bawl and cry like a baby.
    Has he just had a nightmare?  He hopes so.  He hopes he will soon realise that the past two months were all a bad dream and he's on his way to London Victoria, he has to catch a connecting train, he's been for a job interview.  Or perhaps he didn't move so far away, and after work he's on his way over for dinner and to watch a film.
    The truth climbs over his back, crashing down upon him with the unnegotiable force of a wave.  He is reminded of drowning, of feeling trapped in the ocean, being held in its unchanging grip, stuck between the safety of the shore and the deep, murderous depths.  That is where he is now, between life and death.
    He begins to suspect that this underground train is transporting the recently deceased from the waking to the after life.
    He closes his eyes, they're wet with tears, and he longs the sound of the pre-recorded announcments to silence and for the sensation of movement to cease and the smell in his nostrils to expand, like cinemascope, and be the distinctive aroma of a hospital room, and, even though he cannot move, he will be elated to realise that he is in a coma.  Yes, if he had slipped underwater all those months ago and had not died, but been pulled to shore where his condition had stabilised, and, though people would be sad, it may have just saved his life.
    How funny, he thinks, that drowning might have saved him, that if his life had taken that turn then he might not be dead now.  For the one and only time he will find comfort in the idea of a cold, sterile hospital room.
    But it's hot, like a warm, clammy bath and he's brought back to this train, this journey that lasts forever and, most cruelly of all, takes him closer and closer to her.  Maybe he should continue, forget his job, just arrive at her door, fall to his knees and beg her to turn back the clock, wipe the slate clean and let him wrap his arms around her and weep.
    Tears will fall from his eyes, tracing the shape of his face and dribble into his mouth, perhaps they will fill his lungs and he will drown.  His mind is alive with possibilities, he suspects he's been looking in the wrong place, that the time machine is not a vehicle or a transport outside of himself, but it is himself.  He is both the time traveller and the time machine and he is fuelled by sorrow and despair.
    He lets himself cry, he drinks his tears, but he struggles to force them into his lungs, and they unhappily fall into the safety of his gullet.
    He considers filling a sink, but knows he could not cry enough and the cruel heat of this early summer would evaporate any he tried to collect over time.
    Perhaps a full bath laced with tears will do just as well?  He feels a great surge of hope as he stands undressed, watching the water level rise, and he is pleased by the temperature as he climbs in.  Neither too hot or cold, like in the fairytale, it is just right.
    He finds it surprisingly easy to sink underwater, opening his eyes wide and seeing the ceiling with an odd sense of clarity.  He did need a transport after all, but smiles because he never would've guessed it would be a bath tub.
    Now he finds it easy to relax and open his mouth, the water doesn't scare him as it pushes impatiently down his throat, and it feels like the soft and romantic massage of a lover as it fills his lungs.
    He closes his eyes.
    He must be travelling, he can feel himself being buffeted as if he's still on the train.  He can also feel himself flying, as if he has departed from his body once more.
    Yes, he thinks, he is travelling through time.
    He can see again, he can see her and she takes his hand, applying a small amount of pressure, enough so that he knows she will never let go and she leans close to him, he's lying down, his eyes are shut but underneath his eyelids he is staring ahead and now he can feel her breath upon his ear, and her free hand strokes his hair, pushing it away from his eyes, her voice, though it is cracked and fragile, she sounds like she has been crying and has almost exhausted every syllable she could ever utter, but she has saved enough breath for one last sentence, and his skin grows cold as she speaks to him for the final time.
    She is with him now and he is happy, perhaps he has not failed after all, because before everything goes dark and silent he can hear her say 'I love you.'

(I Used To Be) Somebody

I love the energy of a crowd, you can't help but feel like a million bucks, with people screaming your name, camera flashes dazzling you, but you seem to float over it, you stay cool and calm, you turn your head, you angle your body, you make the shot. Sometimes you want to get closer, interact with your fans, they'll reach out just to let their fingertips brush your skin, tussle your hair, thrusting autograph books and photos into your hands for you to sign, like a forest made of arms, like a creature out of Lovecraft trying to embrace you.

My friend from back home finds it all so funny, he doesn't understand what they could hope to gain from just touching me, what possible connection could there be between me, the celebrity, and them, the fan, that would transpire at that point as those anonymous digits lightly nudge my cheek or clap my shoulder, what transference could occur? Do they hope that my fame, my success, might pass on to them?

It's my 42nd birthday. I'm sat in the dressing room, there are flowers and cards around the mirror in which I am reflected. I'm wearing a glittery silk shirt open to just below my chest, a large jewel-encrusted belt, tight black trousers and ice skates. I'm not going through to the next round, it doesn't effect my pay, but neither does it improve things for me, I'll be forgotten again in a week or two, especially over here, they treat me like a novelty, they dwell on my past.

My wife is on the phone, she wants to know, now that I'm off the show, when I'll be flying home. I tell her I'm not sure, I have to do some interviews, try and keep up some momentum from this. Later I speak to my agent, try to see if there are any British directors who might want to work with me that I could speak to. Then I call my wife back, ask if my daughter is in, she tells me she's asleep.

People come up to me in the street and still quote lines from my films, they tell me how much they loved them when they were growing up, they can't believe I'm forty two, they say I look so much younger. They usually say; "Don't look now!" or "Where do you kick a skeleton?" Some people ask me what I'm up to these days, and nod when I let them know I'm still working, still acting, I had five films out last year. Since doing the ice-skating show people have started to recognise me more. I guess I'm in the cultural ether again, so people are more inclined to notice me.

My daughter's birthday is the day after mine, I remember being in the hospital with my wife on the night of my 36th birthday, she was in and out of labour all through the night and into the morning, and my daugter was born as the sun was rising outside.

I want to make my daughter proud of me, have some sort of legacy that I can leave her, nobody wants a washed up old man. She was like a pill, filled me with energy when she was born, I spent some time out, just helping, looking after her, before going back to work. When I did I had a renewed vigour, a spring in my step, I think you can see it on screen. I did some of my best work in the years just after she was born. Shame a lot of it sank without a trace, bad marketing.

They showed a clip from 'Freak Street' on the talk show that evening, obviously the one where I shout "Where do you kick a skeleton?" They always either show that one, or the clip from 'Changing Tracks' where I hold the dead lamb and cry. The host of the show was very talkative, I didn't really say that much, just kind of reacted to the things he put in front of me, it was kind of a light entertainment show, nothing too in depth. When he asked me what I was doing next I suddenly realised I don't have any work lined up, fortunately I didn't blank for long, and just told him I was heading home to spend some time with my family. Which is good, it makes me sound down-to-earth.

Fame is a disease, you don't ask for it, really, you just want to work, do the thing you love, fame can sometimes be the price you pay, and it is a price. People treat you as if it's your own fault that you're famous, that you hounded it down, that you have given up on your rights to a private life, but it is the public that feeds the fire, creates the monster, and though, arrogantly, we, the famous, lap it up, there should be a switch to turn it off and on again. I became famous without realising, acting as a child, my father had heard about a casting session for an orange juice commercial in the building he was working at, took me along, I got the part and an agent hired me the day of the shoot. I did some more commercials, a couple of bit parts in sitcoms, a recurring role in a soap for a while, all before I even hit double digits.

Before I was twelve I'd landed my first film role, a supporting part, goofy younger brother, but the role was a hit, they made a sequel and I got equal billing with the lead. Then came Freak Street, that one's really endured, people love it, there's a sold out midnight screening of that film somewhere in the world practically every other week, and I get asked to all of them. The money's not great, but it's nice to meet the fans, hear how much that film meant to them. It's the positive side of everything that's happened to me.

My wife calls, my daughter's caught measles, on her birthday no less, they've had to cancel the party, but she's upbeat, my daughter that is. I sing Happy Birthday to her down the phone, she asks me when I'll be home, I say a couple of days, but if things go well here it might be longer.

You stand waiting in the wings, breathing deeply, psyching yourself up, holding the hand of your partner, a professional ice skater, you've been training intensely, every day, for this. You try to filter out the sound, it's overwhelming in a way, the boom of the audience. You listen only to the presenters, you wait only for your name, for the music, for the curtains to part, the lights to shine, they're blinding, and you step forwards out onto the ice, ready to dance, feeding off of the applause, the cheers, the gasps, the laughter, and then they judge you, one by one, and then they phone in to keep you or let you go, and you smile, you cry, you holler and scream, you wrap arms around one another either in joy or sadness, and then you trot backstage, to the green room, you sit and wait, they interview you, and it's over, you take off the blades, the glittery suit, wipe make-up away and ruffle the hair, heading for the car to drive you back to the hotel.

I haven't slept in my own bed all year, but I can remember what it feels like. I'll lie in the hotel room, in the large king-size, stretching my hand out and tracing the outline of where my wife would lay, the sheets are so starched and hard, emphasizing the absence. I can't sleep, so I pace the room, make myself a drink, idly flick through television channels, wondering if any of my old films are showing.

I fell asleep around 4am, glass was half full, but now it's empty on the floor by a small puddle, the thrum of my mobile is rattling the bedside table, it's eight in the morning.

My bags are loaded into the back of the waiting taxi, my flight leaves in three hours, I'm chewing the inside of my mouth nervously. It was hard talking to my wife on the phone, her sister was there, though she was upset too I got most of the information from her. My daughter has suffered from complications brought on by the measles, a chronic encephalitis, I keep Googling it and reading the wiki page, but I don't really understand what it's telling me, I don't understand what my wife or her sister are telling me, it says it can be fatal, but it's rare, like 1 in 100,000.

In the airport my agent calls, I tell him about my daughter, he offers his sympathy, tells me to take all the time I need, I thank him, he mentions a feature being shot in a few months, somewhere in Scotland, a horror, but they're interested in me for the lead, I'd need to audition, I shrug it off, I can't do it, he says I could video an audition tape and send it over, I tell him I'll think about it and hang up, my flight is boarding.

Over the ocean words sink in, the doctors told my wife that there's no cure for the disease, SSPE he said, it's always fatal, she may have a year or two, perhaps longer, it's so rare, we forgot to get her immunized, I don't want my wife to blame us, I don't know if she's even thinking about that, why would she think about that? We'll make the time we have special, I'll be there for what little time we've got. It's funny, on flights to and from home before the plane would judder and shake with turbulence and I'd think to myself; 'What if this is it?' I'd make little vows to spend more time with them both, my wife and my daughter, but now I know I never really kept those promises, they are things I felt that I would always have time for, like time is infinite, stretching out forever, that things will always last.

Nothing lasts, by next week or so the photos of me in the weekly magazines will have vanished from the pages, the offers will quieten down again, I should make that audition tape, I mean, the thought does enter my mind that this story, for all its sadness, could be good for me, we could get some perks out of it, like a trip to a theme park or something, she'd like that.

I realise I'm crying, I wipe my eyes, push the balls of my palms against my temple, shake my head. I used to tell people, when I was in my mid-twenties, that I was too selfish to settle down, have kids, I guess I was right. But she doesn't deserve this. What can I do to make things ok? I've been trying, I just want what's best.

The Spoken Word

And no emails would send, no texts would deliver, no phones would ring, no pens would write, no letters would post, no morse code, no telegrams, no walkie talkies. Nothing could get through, apart from standing near someone and saying the words out loud.

There was panic, but its extent was unknown to those experiencing it. Fortunately, people asked one another; "Is your phone working? No, mine neither." The sentence passed like a parcel in a party game from one person to the next, until it started to be understood that nothing was working.

A couple had arranged to meet for dinner, but she was held up at work, she tried to send him a message, she tried to phone the restaurant, but she could not reach anybody, and finally she had to tell her boss that she could not stay late that evening as she had to meet her husband for dinner, and she was allowed to leave, and she hurried through the streets, finally explaining the situation to her husband and they had a marvellous dinner.

A pizza shop stood in silence wondering why, on a Friday night, the phone was not ringing with orders, as it often tended to do at this hour, and what they would do if no pizzas had to be cooked, until, a short time had passed, and people began walking into the shop and making their requests, promising to come back in a minute to pick up the piping hot pizza and carry it home.

Clicking incessantly on the computer's icon the teenager could not understand why his laptop would not connect to the internet, so the following day he went to the shop and bought the new record he was looking forward to from a person behind a counter who smiled and they talked about their respective problems with technology and then they spoke about their shared interest in that band, how the new single was a bit disappointing but they still had optimism for the full album.

Other shoppers weren't so fortunate, as their credit cards could not connect wirelessly with their banks, so their purchases would not go through. Outside the banks the queues snaked around the street, people tirelessly arguing with the tellers, ultimately staggering cautiously outside with their life savings stuffed into holdalls.

On a residential street a fire burned, the family stood outside, but were soon taken into a neighbour's for cups of tea, and a man jumped in his car and drove to the fire station to get help, whilst other neighbours brought out fire extinguishers from their garages and kitchens doing their best to tackle the blaze.

Shop keepers stood defiantly against opportunistic thieves who had felt the lack of telephones would make the high street an easy target, but policemen walked the beat with senses heightened, trying to compensate for their lack of radios, and unable to rally their friends, the thieves soon retreated.

Commuters on trains and buses unable to busy themselves with their social media feeds found themselves looking around for gossip, they found conversation in the company of strangers, whilst others brought books from neglected shelves and found themselves laughing or crying on a journey that had become so routine and familiar.

A young man, fed up with his job, tried to phone in sick, but could not get through, nor could he email, and he hoped that during the night the building that been destroyed in some sort of catastrophe and he would never have to go back there again. But, with very little alternative, he got dressed, made for the door and began his commute into work.

Traders in stock markets stood with their mouths agape and watched blank boards wondering where the strings of numbers and letters that governed their days had disappeared to. Some laughed and clapped one another on the back at the ludicrous situation, whilst others wrenched clods of hair from their own heads in unwitting mania.

There were no love letters and no suicide notes, no final notices or payment's due, no get well soons or happy birthdays, not unless you told them so yourself.

At first people found the words in frustrated fits and starts, awkwardly interacting with one another, devoid of a means to direct their passive aggression into snide texts, tweets and emails, people found their inner monologues trickling out as mutterings, asides and rolled eyes. But, soon, people found the means to be civil, after one too many scuffles, slanging matches, circular arguments over nothing, they realised that polite words had both a calming and immediate effect.

Besides, people's ears weren't plugged by songs, shows, news, stories.

It meant that couples sat at home, staring at a blank box, thumbing through blank books, spinning empty records and wondering what to do. Then she would pick up her guitar, and he would sit at the piano, it would be uncomfortable at first, those awkward notes and chords, they didn't gel, but they stumbled their way along, nervous titters relaxing into easy giggles.

Parents found their minds challenged by the demands of their children, tucked awkwardly and impatiently between sheets, asking for a bedtime story. At first the words tripped and fell, but soon they found their legs, running, sprinting and then taking flight. Mother and father surprised by the worlds inside of them, and reinvigorated by the looks of wonder and smiles on their children's faces.

Without radios, cds and mp3s people stopped to listen to the busker, they went to their local bar for a gig, and they told them, the performers, how they enjoyed the music and asked when they would be playing next.

And people told tales and jokes, they broke bad news and cried in one another's arms, they complimented and criticised, they wooed and they booed, thoughts flowed freely, and whilst we could not all agree, we tried our best to articulate things, with passion, with intelligence, we wanted to debate, to reason, to understand.

Until the following day, when a text message, long since delayed, finally made its way to someone's mobile phone, and the world was rebooted and connected again, and the man sent a text back to his girlfriend saying; 'Sorry babez, fink we shld end it X'.

Still Life

On my birthday they take me outside, they lift me from the bed, carry me downstairs, put me in the chair and wheel me into the garden, where I sit and watch the birds at the feeder.
    It was my twelfth birthday last week, it felt like both a day and a lifetime since the last, and I wasn't expecting much. But mummy and daddy brought presents into my room and later that evening I had a cake and they brought in a television for me to watch a film. It was a film about toys who come to life and get lost and want to go home again. I was glad when they got back home at the end because I knew they would be safe.
    In my bed I listen to music sometimes, I draw on my pads, I always draw birds and trees and the sky, sometimes I will draw a picture of me and mummy and daddy all standing outside, but then it makes me sad and I throw it into the bin.
    Mummy and daddy take it in turns to teach me each day, and then we all say prayers on Sundays.  Sometimes I forget what day of the week it is, but the prayers always remind me and I can start to remember again.
    My favourite stories from the Bible are the ones where Jesus heals the sick, because I know that when I die and go to Heaven he will heal me and I can walk up there.  I wonder what Heaven will be like for me?  Daddy says it is where your dreams all come true, but I don't really dream.  All I know is this room, the hallways, the garden and the films they show me.  I sometimes feel sad that I am poorly, because I make life so hard for my mummy and daddy, but they are so happy and kind and they never make me feel bad.
    I remember when I was little and I would ask my mummy about the other children, sometimes I could hear them through the window, they would be laughing and shouting and on the sunny days they would be playing sports and games.  She would tell me that I shouldn't be envious of them, that there is more to life than playtimes and kicking footballs or hopskotch and skipping.  She would always read me the story of Job and tell me that I should be grateful no matter what lot I had received in life.
    Once I asked why I could not walk, and they told me that all children are born differently, some more able than others, but that does not mean that the Lord loves you more or less, but that he has chosen a different path for you.  I asked them what my path was, and they told me that it was something that I alone could figure out.
    They also told me about the doctors when I was little, that my condition was so fragile and precarious, that they were worried that I might die as a baby and I had to be kept in various braces and contraptions, that if I moved a muscle it could have caused various complications that would have killed me instantly, or worse, slowly.  Though I was better now than I was then, they did warn me that I should always be extra careful, that too much effort on my part could be fatal.  I asked if there was any cure for my condition, they told me that doctors were always working to find out how to help children like me.
    I hadn't seen any doctors since I was too young to remember, but my parents told me that they spoke to them regularly and updated them on my condition. They let me know that the doctors would tell us as soon as they had some tests they would like to try, but, as they had explained, medical science can take many years to progress.  I had special tablets that I had to take to help numb the pain, I had to take them three times a day, once in the morning, once after lunch and once before I went to sleep.

It is my thirteenth birthday and I have a cold, my mummy was surprised, she said she thinks daddy must have brought it into the house.  I don't often get sick, which mummy says is an advantage of being away from other children, and she tells me such funny stories about how disgusting they are, all snotty and splotchy with little bugs called nits crawling in their hair.  It made me very glad not to have any of those ailments!
    But today I wasn't feeling very well at all, and I kept sneezing.  Mummy put her hand on my brow and told me I had a temperature, she said that maybe I should stay inside today, but I begged her, I pleaded, and said that maybe the fresh air would do me good.  Mummy could see how much I wanted to sit in the garden and watch the birds, she smiled and said it would be okay, but not for too long just to be on the safe side.
    I grinned and mummy gave me my tablets and some milk before going downstairs to get the chair ready.
    I took my tablets, but had a terrible sneeze just as I did and they flew across the room and landed behind a cabinet.  Suddenly I was overcome with worry, I had never not taken my tablets before, and I was concerned that the pain would come to me quite suddenly.  I wished that I could get out of bed and find where they had fallen.
    The door opened and daddy walked in, I wanted to tell him about the tablets, but for some reason I was embarassed and scared about what he might say, he might think I had disobeyed mummy and him on purpose, they had told me about rebellious teenagers.  I was worried that if I told him, and if he thought that, then they might not let me outside.  Besides, he was smiling and singing me a little birthday song, so I just smiled back.
    Daddy carried me out of bed, into the hallway, down the stairs and put me into the chair.  He wheeled me out the back door and into the garden, stopping the chair in the usual place on the patio so I could see the bird feeder clearly.  He ruffled his hand in my hair and gave me a kiss on the cheek and wished me happy birthday again, then, as my mother was calling him, he went back inside.
    It was a little chilly, so I rubbed my arms to try and fight the cold.
    Maybe the birds were cold too, because there weren't any at the feeder like there usually were on my birthday.  I sighed and my breath came out in a cloud, which I had never seen before, I tried to do it again, but it didn't happen.
    Then a most peculiar thing occured, a bird came hopping out from a bush, as if it had been hiding, waiting for me.  I cooed to it, trying to make the best bird sound I could, but I didn't want to frighten it, so I was ever so quiet.  The bird did seem to notice, but it only twitched its head in my direction.  There seemed to be something wrong with it, and I saw that it was standing on one little foot, the other was raised up and bent backwards, like it had been sprained or broken.  Poor little bird, I thought to myself.
    At the back of the garden I saw a visitor that I had not seen before, a cat, it was big and grey with a white beard and mittens, and it walked low to the ground, moving along the fence with both its amber eyes staring hungrily at the little bird. I knew what the cat was thinking.
    I waved my hand and shouted for the bird to shoo, but the bird's curiosity only seemed to be raised by my gestures and sounds, and the cat was still stealthily slinking closer and closer.  Everything I tried only appeared to fascinate the little bird with its soft red tummy, and I would point and tell it that there was a cat, but it would just skip closer to me, twitching its tiny head and looking at me with curious eyes.
    With vicious intent the cat, now so very close, snuggled down against the ground, stretching itself out in readiness, a determined expression on its face.
    "No!" I cried and flung my arms with all the energy I had, and it was far more strength that I had anticipated, so much so that I managed to propel myself forwards and my chair pushed itself backwards.
    Down I fell, crashing hard onto the ground, my top half landing relatively softly on the grass, but my bottom half scraped nastily on the cold patio, it was rugged and angry against my skin and a sudden, searing pain rushed from the tip of my toes to the top of my head.  I did not wail, I was fixated on the bird, which had not flown away, but the cat had been so surprised by sudden collapse that it dashed out of the garden as if it were the one responsible.
    The dear little bird looked at me, a tumbled fool draped inelegantly on the ground.  I could feel an electric dampness around my shins, and I knew it must be blood.  I was so scared that I might die that I could not scream out for mummy and daddy, who would usually leave me alone in the garden for an hour or so when it was my birthday.  I remembered that mummy said they would come back sooner because of my flu, but I did not know how long she had meant, and I did not know how long I had already been outside.
    Lying on the ground, looking at the bird, it felt like forever, and I did not know what I could do, and I felt the wet of the blood make a pool and then rivers that tickled my knees.  I stared at the bird who stared at me and wished for an answer and the bird flew away.
    Alone on the ground I remembered the strength that had thrown my from my chair, the power of my arms, and I bit my lip, afraid of the pain, and braced my arms, pushing with all my might and managing to turn myself from my front to my back.
    I looked at my legs, expecting to see a grotesque and mangled mess, but there was barely a smudge of blood where I had imagined gushing rivers of frightening red.  I told myself off for such silliness, it was all in my head.  I moved my knee closer so that I could see.
    A tingle that began between my shoulder blades and danced up and around my neck caused me to stop.  I felt as if I had suddenly left my own body and was floating above it, looking down on me sat on the grass, with my cut knee cradled and supported by my left hand, and even floating there looking at it from afar I still could not quite comprehend what I was seeing.
    I stretched my left leg back out, back to where it had been previously, as if I was trying to undo what I had just done, but the very fact that I could do this was just as surprising.  I looked at the other leg, brought my right knee up, the same thing but mirrored.  With a new found sense of confidence I moved each leg in turn, and then brought them both up towards me together. Nervously I placed my hands behind me and carefully pushed on the floor.
    As I arched my body up off of the ground I could feel a numb weight, my legs, unused struggled and battled with the great surge of effort I was putting into them.  But I persisted, bringing myself up as high as I could before reaching out and pulling my chair back towards me.
    I climbed, my arms shaking with the strain, their juddering had a terrifying urgency as if they might explode if I pushed them too hard.  But I did it.  I hoisted myself up and flopped, a little inelegantly, into my chair.  I brushed my hair as neatly as I could, I rubbed at my grazed knees and pulled my nightie down far enough to cover the redness.
    There was a part of me that wanted to call out and tell my parents what wonderful thing had just happened, but, again, I was frightened as to how they would react.  I wanted to keep this to myself, a little secret until I could be sure it wasn't just chance.

Over the next few days I managed to only pretend to take my medicene.  My mummy and daddy were so used to the routine that they did not pay much attention to make certain that I was swallowing the pills, and I stuffed them under the pillows when their backs were turned.
    When I was left alone, which was often, I would practice moving my legs, I would raise them as far off of the bed as I could - which was not very far at all - and try to hold them off of the mattress for as long as I could stand.  Each one in turn, over and over, for every available moment of the day.
    But I was eager, greedy for progress, and knew I would not be satisfied until I had stood on my own two feet without holding onto anything.  However, I was worried, that I might fail, I might collapse on the floor, and my parents would hear the thump and come running to find me in a heap and scold me, warn me of the dangers of exerting myself.
    It had been three days since I began my exercises, I was confident and determined.  As soon as my mother had given me my morning pulls and left the room I whipped the sheets away and stared, fixedly, at my limbs.  I didn't say anything, but I felt like I was preparing them, giving them a little speech to raise their spirits.  Inside I was willing all my strength, all my energy, down from each extremity so that it would fill upside my legs like hot soup and give them the power, give them the tenacity to not let me down.
    Pivoting on my bottom I swung my legs so they dropped over the bedside and hung, loosely, down over the floor, a small drop between the carpet and the soles of my feet.  Keeping my hands gripping the bedspread, just in case, I edged a little further forwards, worried that once I pushed myself off that I might fall forever.
    Cautiously I leant ahead, getting a good look at my landing, my target, and I moistened my lips with had grown dry with nerves.
    And I pushed, and I slid down, the mattress rubbing the base of my spine as if it did not want to let me go, just as I refused to let go of it, and my feet placed themselves quietly, modestly, on the floor and my legs began to bend, I began to drop, but then I started to rise again, whispers of strength hurrying, as if they were late, up my muscles, and coming to life for the first time, being born again, and standing, and pushing me up, and standing, and my fingers opening, letting go of the bedspread, and rising out at either side, coming up so far that they were at shoulder height, stretched out either side to give me balance, like wings, and I was standing.
    I did not want to over do it, but I did not want to waste this moment, I stepped, slowly, made my way around the outside of the bed frame, so that I would always have something to grab if I fell.  I made it all the way around to the other side of the bed and I looked back at my path, at what I had accomplished.
    I decided to walk to the door, to see if I could make it without a crutch in arm's reach.  Each foot fall landed with a moment of doubt, I would check that it was placed solidly on the floor before moving the other, cautious that at any moment I would wake from this dream and find myself still lying in bed.
    I reached the door and placed my left hand on it for support.  My other hand, from some unknown instinct, had reached for the handle, but it just hovered over it, whilst I stared down at it, as if we asking one another of our intentions, waiting for the other to give the nod, to encourage the action that we both, so eagerly, so unashamedly wanted to do.
    What would be the point, I thought, of going back to my bed, of lying there like I have done for thirteen years?  Maybe this will all be taken away from me again, maybe this is a dream, but I should not turn back just because it might be dangerous, I should keep going until I can go no further.
    The handle turned, there was a quiet click as the door moved, and I stepped against the wall to pull it open and slide, eyes wide, out onto the landing.
    Things looked different, I had always been carried, now my view was the right way up which made everything most strange.  I took quick steps and put a hand out onto the bannister, giving myself a little support as I shuffled towards the top of the stairs.
    Standing there, one hand on the bannister still, I felt like a great change was happening, that this was truly a miracle, that I had been blessed, my good spirit was being rewarded and now my life could begin.  I could spare my parents burdens, they would not have to nurse me any longer, they would be so happy, we all would, and things will change for the better with every passing day.
    "Sophie?" came my mother's voice from a doorway behind me.  I did not know what room she had been in, having never seen any but my own.  "What are you doing?"
    "It's a miracle mummy!" I beamed.
    "You know that you could fall, you could fall down the stairs and die, that your condition could flare up at any moment, you could die Sophie, you could die!" her voice was rising with panic, but she did not move from the doorway.
    "I can walk mummy, I can stand.  Look!"
    I took my hand away from the bannister and showed her, I stood there before her, unassisted and her expression did not change.
    "Did Jesus heal me?  It's a miracle, isn't it mummy?"
    My mother called out, her voice directed past me, "Frank!"
    My daddy came hurrying to the bottom of the stairs and called up, "What is it?"
    "Come up here, Frank."
    My daddy walked up the lower stair case to the corner and stopped on the spot when he saw me stood at the top.
    "Be careful Sophie." he warned me, holding out his hands in front of him.
    "I'm fine Daddy, I can stand, I can walk."
    "We need to get you back into your bed Sophie, too much excitement, it could be deadly, you don't want to be in pain, do you?"
    "I'm not in pain, mummy, daddy, it's the greatest thing that has happened."
    My father moved forward, started to climb the stairs towards me, keeping his hands in front, like I was a wild beast and he thought I might strike.  I looked back to my mother, she was still standing in the doorway of that unknown room, it was dark behind her.
    As my daddy approached me I could not understand why they were not happy, why they hadn't run towards me with huge smiles and we had all wrapped our arms around one another and been so full of joy that we cried magnificent tears.  His face, the face stepping cautiously closer, was one of concern.  I knew he would put his hands on me and hold me still, that he would pick me up, like he does every birthday, and he would carry me back to my bed, that he would make me lie there, and now they would watch me take my medicenes, they would maybe even lock the door, they would not trust me any longer, and I did not understand.
    I thought we would all be happy, that they would praise the Lord and we would say how much we loved one another, and how much we loved the Lord God and Jesus, and thank them for the miracle, thank them for the gift they had given, the second chance.  I did not want to go back to bed, I did not want to be alone in my room, I knew there was a world out there and I could reach it, that I could fly away like the little curious bird and discover everything there was to know.
    My hands reached down to the bannister, I looked back at my mother and then turned again so that my eyes met my father's.  I did not want him to catch me.  I found all my strength again, I lifted myself up off of the ground, I swung my legs over, and, as I had done earlier, I fell and I felt like I fell forever.

The Coincidence Machine

I didn't know what it was at first.  It was shrouded in bubble wrap, which had rendered it spherical, but once the wrappings were removed it was a small rectangular casket with a leather shoulder strap.  There were various knobs and dials and a brass handled lever.  There was a yellowed roll of paper in amongst the wrapping, and on it was written these words: 'Henry, don't play with this, it's most precarious.  Uncle Stanislous.'
    Naturally this only piqued my curiosity.  I put the leather strap over my head and across my chest, the casket sat snugly at my stomach, the enticing array of buttons in easy reach of my eager fingers.
    I was ginger at first, choosing carefully which dial to twist, and doing so only gradually, but, as nothing seemed to happen I became more reckless, more ready to turn things as far as they would go, until at last in utter frustration I threw my hands to my sides and exclaimed; "How does this contraption work?!"
    At this point I stumbled backwards over an old dusty sheet, pulling the covering off of one of my father's bookshelves, revealing an assortment of aged tomes.  One in particular caught my eye, less dusty than the others, it was a small book, no more than 100 pages at most and didn't bare any inscription on the spine.  I stood up and slipped it from the shelf.
    It turned out to be a notebook, written by this Uncle Stanislous, and explaining the workings of the box at my belly.  It was, what he called, a coincidence machine.  I skimmed listlessly through the pages, the book falling on the final page of scribbled inkings, words stressed with harsh under-lining, emphasizing their importance: 'Perhaps it is best to leave things to chance.'
    This did not interest me, I flipped back to the beginning, to the operation of the machine.  It transpired that the various dials controlled levels of coincidence, from a little bit of happenstance through kismet and ultimately to destiny.  You could carefully adjust each dial to endeavour to incur the occurence of all manner of fates, from financial to romantic, though the book was rather unsure of the correct ratios to encourage each.  The lever was, quite simply, the on and off switch.
    To be sure I moved the lever back into the off position.  Just in case.
    I figured the best place to test the coincidence machine would be somewhere out in the open, somewhere public and prone to randomness.

I received a few suspicious looks as I strolled around the supermarket with this odd brown box hanging from my neck, carefully twiddling its knobs, but waiting until just the right moment to finally turn it on.  Finally I reached a good cross-roads, a small roundabout of baked goods where the breads and cakes were kept.  I stood back, surveyed the scene, and pushed the lever forward.
    There was a lady examining egg boxes, opening each one and checking the contents carefully, inspecting each half dozen, looking for the perfect purchase.  Nearby a father and his toddler were inspecting birthday cakes, trying to find the right one, the boy was unhappy with the selection of novelty caterpillars, football shapes and boy bands.
    "Well, what do you want on your cake, son?"
    "A picture of me fighting a hundred robot sharks!"
    His father chuckled, "I think that's rather wishful thinking..."
    "There it is!" his boy beamed, pointing at a cake down in the corner.
    "What?" his father stepped forward, assuming that his son had spotted another satisfactory confection and forgotten all about his surreal suggestion.  But there, sure enough, was a rectangle of sponge, smothered in icing and bearing a rather life-like image of the boy dressed as a space warrior blasting at a seemingly endless army of mechanised great whites with his double-barrelled laser rifle.  His father, with a look of some confusion and trepdiation in his eyes, snatched up the cake and hurried off.
    I quickly pulled the lever back.  I took out my camera, snapped a picture of the dials, and wrote - in a notebook I had purchased earlier - 'Tuesday 11am: Cake coincidence.'

I went to the park, it was a nice day but quiet, perhaps it was too late for all the joggers and too early for all the lunchers.  I sat on a bench and adjusted each dial ever so slightly, wanting to see what effects a small change would have before I tried anything too wild.  I looked around and pushed the lever.
    “Michael?” came an excited female voice, I turned, as it had called my name.
    Stood in the path, dressed in jogging clothes, removing the headphones of her mp3 player from her ears, was Elizabeth.  She had been a huge crush of mine throughout University, we were on the same course together, and she looked even more beautiful now than she had done so then.  She brushed a slip of her long dark hair back from her eyes where it had fallen from the neat pony-tail it was otherwise cinched into, and walked towards me.  I stood and received a big hug and a rather unexpected kiss on the cheek.
    “Hey!” I beamed, “It’s been a long time.”
    “It’s been five years exactly,” she nodded, doing the rather simple math in her head.  It was indeed almost exactly five years since the end of term of the last year of University.  “How have you been?”
    “Good, yeah, great, I’ve moved to London, how about you?”
    “Yeah, London as well, been here for a few months.”
    “Whereabouts are you?”
    “Stoke Newington.”
    “Oh, me too, I have a flat on Church Street.”
    “Me too!  Spooky.” She exclaimed.
    “I know,” I agreed, but I knew that this was not what she thought it was.
    “What number?”
    Tentatively I said; “Thirty eight.”
    “No!  I’m at thirty-seven, what a –“
    I cut her short, almost loath to hear the word, and feeling like the cruel invisible orchestrator of some twisted symphony.  “Are you still seeing…?”
    I only wished to imply his name, she’d been with Johnny for the final two years of Uni, they’d begun their relationship on the very day I had finally psyched myself up enough to try and ask Elizabeth out.  When I got to Scholars – our regular pub – there was Elizabeth and Johnny, fingers entwined, slumped happily on the sofa chairs at the back.  They didn’t see me, but I saw them and immediately turned around, went home and drank an entire bottle of Glen’s vodka.
    “Johnny?  No, we broke up about a month after Uni, in fact I haven’t seen him in – OH MY GOD!” she broke into another massive smile, but she was looking just over my shoulder.
    I turned, there was Johnny, he was riding a bicycle towards us, but came almost immediately to a halt when he saw Elizabeth’s grinning face and out-stretched arms.
    “This is SO wild!” she howled with glee.
    “Elizabeth?” Johnny smiled wistfully, “I don’t believe it.” He turned and looked me up and down, scrunching his eyes into a squint of remembrance, “And… Martin, good to see you too, buddy.”
    “Michael,” I corrected, shaking his hand.
    “No, it’s Johnny.” He corrected, squeezing a little more tightly as he did so.
    “So, how have you been?” his correction directed at Elizabeth, I was no longer part of his attention, I could have stripped naked, painted myself blue and farted the complete works of Shostakovich and he wouldn’t have noticed.
    “Great, yeah, me and Michael –“ (She emphasized my name for Johnny’s benefit, but I doubt it mattered.) “-were just catching up, we’re neighbours, can you believe that?”
    “That’s great,” Johnny said with a spectacular lack of conviction.
    “How about you? I thought you’d moved to Chicago?”
    Suddenly Johnny seemed to take on a different shade of confusion, he looked around like a concerned squirrel and surveyed the scene, the cold London skyline, the weary trees, the dew dusted grass.
    “I have,” he whimpered.
    “What brings you back?”
    “I’m back?”
    “Yes,” suddenly Elizabeth lost her radiance, “We’re in Clissold Park, Stoke Newington.”
    “What?! I… What? You’re messing with me, right?”
    “No, I, well, look, that’s the Castle, that’s the pond, er, how can I prove this?” Elizabeth got out her mobile phone, illuminated the screen and showed him the little location indicator beneath the clock that read ‘London’.
    “This is impossible… I was on my way to a business meeting… the most important…” his eyes darted from left to right, baubles of sweat were visibly sprouting out of his brow, his hands were shaking on the handlebars, his voice was beginning to quiver.
    I timidly glanced down at the coincidence machine and, very slowly so as not to arouse suspicion, edged the lever back to the off position.
    But, unlike fairy tales when the spell is broken, things did not revert back to normal, and Johnny stood there unable to articulate his bafflement. He was overcome with shock, Elizabeth, being the wonderful person she is, wrapped an arm around him and said she’d make him a cup of tea at hers and then they could figure out what had happened and how to get him home. I made some terribly flimsy excuses and, with waves of guilt crashing over me, took a prolonged and circuitous route back to the flat so as not to bump into my new neighbour.

When I was home I took a photograph of the settings and wrote; ‘Tuesday 1pm: Old friends.’
Now I was beginning to realise the terrible power of the coincidence machine. Whilst it had clearly brightened that child’s birthday, relieved – and, I think, worried – that beleaguered father, almost allowed me to make up for a missed romantic opportunity, it had, on the other hand perhaps destroyed a man’s career, cost him a flight home and, worst of all, potentially reunited a couple I was more than grateful to have seen the end of.
    I began to suspect that there was no real way to control the coincidence machine once it was operational, that you couldn’t will a coincidence into action, and, at first, the coincidence machine had a secret agenda of its own that, ultimately, fed off of the thoughts and feelings of those drawn into its sphere and brought about whatever little acts of fate they perhaps wished for or dreaded, unintentionally or otherwise.  Turning the coincidence machine on was a leap of faith, a plunge into the unknown, it was dangerous and could not be trusted.
    I felt that the power of this device was too much for anyone to be responsible for, that the consequences of operating it were too random and hazardous for further experimentation, no amount of analysis of those various dials would ever be enough to understand the machinations of fate, and that potentially tragedy could befall me before I completed my task.
    Worse, I worried that the coincidence machine had not only been effecting me, but it had impacted others, that, suddenly, spontaneously, around the world there had been a mass outbreak of coincidences resulting in all manner of awful and awkward situations. Though another, more romantic, voice in my head had posited that perhaps it could have possibly resulted in the discovery of important clues in unsolvable cases, of parents being reunited with long lost children, of lovers seperated by trivial notions who both longed to speak but had never had the courage miraculously found themselves face to face and immediately fell into one another’s embrace.
    What was it? I wondered. If there are two sides to coincidence, the magical and tragical, then does one outweigh the other? For all the strained conversations that a bad coincidence could elicit, perhaps the good that this device was capable of tipped the balance.
     I had convinced myself, it was worth the risk, I turned the coincidence machine back on, besides, what’s the worst that could happen, it’s not the end of the world.

Altruism

The only truly unselfish act is one that you do not know you have performed. With this in mind, Alistair B. Maypole set up trying to unknowingly do something absolutely altruistic, not realising that intentionally attempting to do something unintentionally instantly negated the very purpose of that which he was trying to achieve. However, perhaps, even through this intentional unintentionality he would thusly do something outside of that which he planned upon performing that would lead, unbeknownst to him, towards good fortune for some absolute stranger and therefore, ultimately, confirm his hypothesis. As long as he never knew that someone had benefited as a result of an action he did not realise he had ever performed he would be undoubtedly correct in his assumptions. But he could never know this.
    However, he also believed that being a decent person in general was a fine way to live ones life, so would not feel any bitterness towards the fact that he would never get any personal satisfaction out of his altruistic act.
     Though, he began to wonder, whether endeavouring to always be good was indeed the true path to absolute altruism? For, indeed, he would always be aware that his intentions had other people's best interests at heart, therefore absolutely every action he performed was with the purpose of improving the life of others be they family, friends or perfect strangers. Now he was confused, perhaps a mean spirited person stands more of a chance of being utterly unselfish than he ever could?
     Alistair slumped in his chair and pondered his predicament.
     One needed, he considered, to somehow observe an instance of total unselfishness in another of strong moral character in order to confirm its feasibility as a concept. He considered his friends and found them all to be most lacking in moral fibre, especially Wendy. He considered his family and though he felt them all to be good people they lived too far away for him to permit them into his equation and, besides, he imagined that their flaws would come to him all too readily under observation. So, he nodded, it was settled, he must observe strangers in an effort to find one of absolute moral character.

He began in the park, it was a cold day, but there were a few people around. At first he observed a man stood eating a sandwich over a bin. Alistair thought that was most considerate to eat over the bin so that any crumbs don't litter upon the ground. But then he thought that it was most inconsiderate to any birds that might peck at those crumbs as a tasty supplement to a wormy main course, and then the man tried to kick a squirrel in the face, so Alistair realised that this man was perhaps not the paragon of selflessness that he had hoped.
     Secondly he observed a young lady flying a kite with a small child standing beside her, she had a look of unparalleled joy on her face, it was such a wonderful scene to see the two of them engaging in simple and pleasurable activity such as this. Perhaps Alistair's own preference for this young lady was buoyed by the fact that he did find her rather attractive, but, one cannot dismiss someone so readily just because of an attraction, it's just another form of prejudice. Yes, Alistair thought, what a most fine lady. However his optimism was duly crushed when the young child suddenly ran off in a huff and shouted, 'Mummy, this strange lady won't give me my kite back!'
     The third person that Alistair observed was an elderly gentleman riding a bicycle, he was whistling a little ditty to himself as he rode past but stopped to doff his cap and bid Alistair a good day. Alistair was so taken and charmed by this gesture that he himself utterly forgot to return the greeting and just stood staring, with a little smile, as the gentleman rode past. Unfortunatley the gentleman did not take kindly to Alistair's grimace and offered some cuss words as an epilogue to the greeting, thus distracting himself causing the bicycle to wobble and collapse beneath him, sending the elderly man onto the grass. Alistair hurried to help attend the fallen gentleman, but he was not injured and also seemed to bare the blame for his tumble on Alistair and proceeded to chase him around the park whilst brandishing his bicycle's - now broken - handlebars as some sort of makeshift cudgel.
     Alistair decided that perhaps the park was not the best place to start and sought a new venue for his observations.

After being thrown out of a library, a hospital, two office buildings and a haberdashery, Alistair retreated to the Dog and Duck where he consoled himself with a glass of sherry and his pipe. His good friend George was there, sat writing in the corner at first, he came over to clap Alistair on the back and ask of his day.
     'Do you believe in unselfishness George, old boy?' Alistair asked, dolefully tapping his pipe into an empty glass.
     'Why yes, I suppose I do.' George sounded rather chipper today. 'Buy us a drink there won't you?'
     Alistair got a pair of sherrys and handed one to his friend.
     'But how,' Alistair continued, 'can someone be truly unselfish? Surely all acts of kindness bring warmth to the one performing them as well as the one benefiting?'
     'What if,' George ran a finger along his thin moustache, 'you're performing an act that you do not wish to perform?'
     'Such as?'
     'Giving up a beloved possession?'
     'But if you knew that sacrifice would make someone else happy then you would feel good as a result of that, else why would you give up the possession in the first instance?'
     'You have a point there.'
     'Indeed I do, which is why I'm in such a grouch today. I believe I have to find an absolutely moral person in order to - '
     But George had already spluttered his drink at the words 'absolutely moral' and was now chuckling to himself.
     'Good Heavens Alistair, such a person does not exist.'
     'Really George, you think so?'
     'Undoubtedly old bean, the very act of existing is pure selfishness.'
     'I can't believe you think that.'
     'Besides, what makes you think a good person could be altruistic? Surely a terrible person would stand a better chance, I can't imagine them feeling a sense of goodness even if they knowingly had enriched someone's life?'
     George, as usual, confirmed Alistair's suspicions in a manner that suggested an immediate and absolute rethink of his proposition. He theorised that he should instead find the most despicable and terrible person he could, someone for whom an act of kindness would cause them absolute revulsion and, then, discover some good that has come indirectly as a result of their mean-spirited, self-centred actions and there he would find absolute altruism. Excitedly he explained this all to George.
     'I can see you're satisfied with your hypothesis,' George looked down at his drinking companion, his eyes narrowing along the smooth outside of his glass as if they were the sights of a rifle. 'But you're wrong again, my friend.'
     Alistair's head dropped into his hands, 'Oh, what now?'
     'I don't see how an unselfish act can be performed as part of a purely selfish intent?'
     'Poppycock!' Blasted George was right again, Alistair thought, he reasoned to himself that needed to find a new pub in which to drown his sorrows, as every time he comes here the damn fool always gets the best of him.
     'You see,' George smiled, 'it is quite impossible. Now, buy us another drink, be a good chap.'

Two more sherrys and Alistair's purse was as famished as he. Once the drinks were done he bid George farewell and took the long - and rather lop-sided - walk back to his rooms at the Langham. There he dressed in his bed clothes and climbed between the sheets, resolving to forget about all this altruistic nonsense come the morning. Thanks largely to the alcohol inside him it was not long after his head touched the pillow that he fell into a deep slumber.

 

There's No One Out There For Anyone

St. Valentine's Day, an idea of a tradition clinging on from a long forgotten time when people loved one another and wished to express it.  I have a box of faded, delicate love letters written between my great-great-great-great-great-grandparents, I'm not even sure if that's enough greatness, but I didn't want to waste your time.
    It was skin-crawling, reading those words, those sickly sweet secret sentiments shared between two people of an emotion, a feeling, I cannot conceive of.  It makes me shiver uncomfortably just thinking about, trying to imagine how that must have felt, it's like cockroaches crawling on your skin, or worms wriggling beneath it.
    But, for me, it shared a private, unspoken fascination.  It was a time where the feeling that lead to the conception of their children, and ultimately me, was driven by a different desire.  They weren't thinking about propogation, instead, they were in love and that love brought them together, provoked the desire to hold one another close, to kiss and cuddle, and, ultimately, to have sexual intercourse and give birth to children who they would also love and raise as part of a family.
    It seems so alien and irrelevant, but it is how it was.
    A friend of mine, I can't tell you his name, once told me, in confidence, that he thought he was falling in love with a girl in our seminars.  He was so ashamed, he didn't know what to do, he wanted to be with her, but he couldn't stand to think of her with other people and knew he couldn't say anything, that he couldn't ask to be his and only his.  If she told other people he would be ostracised.  He couldn't even bring himself to have sex with her, though she had come on to him a number of times, because he knew it would only make things worse for himself.  He would tell her lies, make up medical conditions, just so he could get out of it.
    I listened, but I had nothing to say to him.  I don't care about him.
    I don't understand why someone would want to go back to that way of thinking, where ridiculous imaginary emotions get in the way of sexual pleasure and rational reproduction.  Why would a man and a woman want to solely dig into the same genetic well when they could spread their genes far and wide creating a more diverse, culturally and intellectually exciting society.
    Love is a stupid concept, I don't know where it possibly could have originated from, it seems to preclude the basic instinct of any human being, the primitive, and ultimately more pleasurable, urge.  Why create a weight of guilt to hang around your necks when you commit, what they called, adultery?
    I have plenty of friends, a number of which I regularly have sex with, alongside those I have a handful of frequent sexual partners, and then there are nights out where perhaps I was go to a sex club or just to a bar and perhaps go home with some people for sex.  I am absolutely indiscriminate with my sexual preferences, as I feel everyone should be, and I have had sex with all types of people.  Why would I only want to have sex with one person for the rest of my life?
    I have tried to imagine it, and it must get boring, or the sex must lose its appeal for at least one, if not both, people in that pairing, and then, what can you do?  I imagine the stipulations and pre-conceptions of the love partnership would prohibit you from requesting another sex partner, and then your sexual frustrations could only be re-directed into unhappiness.  Why would someone do that to themselves?
    I will have friends all my life, as I will have sex partners, maybe they will continue to be the same people, maybe they won't.  If I felt that my sex partner had to be the only person I would be spending my life with then I would perhaps judge my sex partners and my friends more harshly.  I would not have sex with many of the people I have sex with for reasons as prejudiced as intelligence and genetic benefits.  I have friends and sex partners for all manner of occasion, and I feel no more distant or closer to any of them based on their thoughts and feelings.
    I wish my friend hadn't told me that he thought he was in love.  I don't think I can be his friend anymore.  He was always strange.  I thought he was quite liberal, but he would not have sex with me, yet he expected me to stay at his house drinking into the night, and I do not see why I should have to masturbate and he forbid me from doing so in front of him.  He is far more conservative than I expected, and I am surprised that he would dare open up to me.  People have said I have a friendly face, so maybe he thought I could be trusted.  I guess I can, I won't tell anyone who he was, but I shall have to cut him out of my social life.
    I feel sorry for my distant relatives, bound by their love, how that must have stymied them financially, how it must have inhibited their ambitions, compromised their dreams.  I have a freedom that they could only dream of, I am untethered, I am fulfilled, I am wanting nothing and bound to nobody.
    If someone loved me I don't think I would want to know.  I cannot imagine being able to sex with someone who loved me without pitying them, and that, among many others, is an emotion I do not wish to experience.  I have never understood why emotion ever invaded the enjoyment and gratification of sex.  If anything, when I try to conceive of love as a general experience, I can only see it interfering with the process.  How can the two things go together without one cheapening the other?  If you felt that strongly about someone then I can only see sex seeming tawdry when cast under that shadow.  Whilst sex as an expression of love seems ridiculous in equal measure.
    Sometimes I think my curiosity could be misinterpreted.  As much as the antiquated idea of love does fascinate me it is not for envy, as I believe envy is an emotion that is only really associated with love, and since we have no need for love we have no need for envy, we have no want because people don't treat things with such a precious facade.  I do not love or hate anyone, I am utterly indifferent, as I have everything I need and that which I do not have I do not need.
    I have only been refused sex three times, once by my friend as I have already described, once because they told me I was too young - I was seventeen and they were forty two - and once because they said I was too drunk, but I do not think that was the real reason.  Besides, I generally only wish to have sex with people who I share some commonality with, though, largely, I think this isn't always entirely necessary, it is my one real sexual preference and I am only less particular when I am outside of my comfort zone and feeling horny.
    There was one girl who got pregnant, that was a few years ago, and once she had the baby she was straight back at University.  I've heard about men and women who wish to raise their own child, but that isn't the norm, as it used to be, besides there are plenty of centres that will raise the child to a good standard.  My parents chose not to raise me, I have never met them and have no desire to do so, my early years attendants were good and I was lucky to have some strong teachers, hence why am I still in education now.  Though I'm not sure what I want to be, perhaps a banker, I hear they have a lot of sex.
    I think my sexual desire is quite high, I have sex every day, usually with one of my housemates in the morning or at night, and then often with classmates on break times or after school.  I go to a sex club probably once a week and can spend a whole day there and friends invite me to orgies quite regularly.
    There is so much I have to do, so many people I want to have sex with, so many things I hope to achieve before I day, and I cannot imagine trying to form the heightened, unrealistic emotional connection expected of my perception and understanding of the concept of love alongside trying to accomplish all that I wish to within the span of my life.
    But I read these love letters from generations past, left with me when my mother and father decided to take me to a centre as a baby, and I feel a twist in the pit of my stomach, a peculiar sadness that they were so naive, that they believed in a fantasy, and spent their long lives in this state of delusion thinking that it would have some sort of lasting legacy, some sort of meaning beyond their limited days, and here I am, many years down the line, and I know how little it all meant, how worthless it all was, and for some reason it makes me sad, and I never feel sad.