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"Tales of our Times"


Chapter 1
Roots

By zanya

 

The April sun streamed through the window  as Matt Quincy closed the drawer of his bureau.

‘Has to be done,’ Matt murmured to himself. ‘No point leaving it to a bunch of strangers to sort out.’

He was happy to have a  reliable local estate agent, like Spegglys  take charge of the sale.

 Emerging from his bureau, he glanced around at the oak chairs and the murals adorning the corridor leading to the dining room. Many a Lord and Lady had  supped there through the decades.

‘What of all that now?’ he sighed. ‘A septuagenarian like me must downsize.’

He remembered when his father, Piggott, transferred the property to him. A sense of continuity pervaded the transfer as he stood holding the hand of then his six- year- old son, Archibald.

 Wander lust ran in Archibald’s veins. Last Matt heard of him he was deep in the Amazon jungle trying to save the planet.

Now fifty-five,  Matt wondered how long more Archie might be able to pursue his altruistic endeavours.

The sound of bird song outside the casement brought Matt back from his reverie.

 

The crew from Speggly’s real estate had pulled up outside in their truck.

Unloading a yellow and red ‘For Sale ‘ sign from the truck, they  hammered it into the ground.

‘Shouldn’t be difficult to shift this pile, Sir,’ one of the men shouted,’ revival of interest in this old colonial style.’

The remark tugged at Matt’s heartstrings. To them it was just another pile to be flogged to the highest bidder.

Despite himself, Matt nodded in agreement.

Within minutes the crew had departed, leaving a trail of fumes behind.

 

Matt  determined to  complete the sale and  find a  smaller property near the village.

Beneath the chestnut trees he bent down and removed some fresh weeds that had begun to sprout under an April sky.

Hearing the sound of footsteps on the avenue, he turned around. A young couple were approaching.

‘Morning sir,’ the young man said,’ just checking Realtor today and this gorgeous pile came up.’

‘Just getting a sense of what’s for sale in this quaint little village,’ the young woman added.

It irked Matt, somewhat. He wished his only son were here to inherit. Then he wouldn’t have to endure the stares of strangers.

With a blithe wave the young couple headed back down the avenue.

 

Matt now began to wonder how long the sale might take to complete. Daytrippers and onlookers he did not want on his property, his home.

Finishing weeding the patch beneath the chestnut tree, he walked purposefully back to his bureau and put a call into the Estate agent.

Emerging from the  bureau, he felt a lot more at ease.

‘Least that will stop the daytrippers and gawkers,’ he  muttered.

 

Within minutes another crew drew up In a truck and removed the ‘For Sale’ sign.

‘That’s the way to go, Sir, on- line sale. That way you avoid lengthy viewings.’

Matt felt finally at peace. Now he would have time to wait.

 

April was a beautiful month in the village of Wharton. Buntings hung all around. Preparations for local Spring fetes were in full swing.

Matt began to ponder who  might buy his property. He hoped it would be somebody with a love of nature and the seasons.

Matt ached to connect with Archibald and tell him of the sale of his childhood home. He toyed with the idea of attempting to connect with him on Facebook. People did that sort of thing all the time. A few weeks passed and nothing happened. 

Matt finally agreed  a reduction in price. War raging again in Europe after seventy years meant a paucity of interest.

 

Finally, one morning in May a call from the estate agent alerted him to have the property ready for viewing.

At least there was now a revival of interest.

A man and his female companion arrived  to view.

Slamming the car doors the pair emerged, the woman carrying a baby at her breast.

Extending his hand in greeting the youngish  man introduced himself and his wife.

‘Morning Sir, I am John Smith and this is Eve my wife and son, Archie. Been looking in this area for a while. Seems perfect for us. Born and raised not far from here.’

 

Matt felt almost a sense of relief, local buyers who would know the lie of the land.

Still, he wondered if this couple  would be able to come up with the finance.

Matt watched from a distance as the couple and their son made their way through the property. They took time to gaze at the sundial that adorned the little courtyard.  Matt felt  comfortable at the possibility of this little family being in situ.

 

Re-emerging from the property, John Smith continued:

‘My late mother, Mildred left the papers in her will, to be opened on her death.’

Matt was bewildered as to the meaning of these words.

John continued to speak, almost oblivious as to whether anyone was listening.

‘Mamma was one of life’s pioneers,’ he continued. ‘Papa had sustained injuries in war rendering him sterile. So the pair embarked on a fertility quest. Not the type of thing you find in  a small village.’

Matt was enthralled.

'So here I am, John Smith.  Mighty glad that man, my dad, Archibald, your son, took time out from his Amazon activities to donate his sperm. Of course you'll need sir, to check out my DNA  credentials. '

Matt was speechless. There was so much to take in. But a sense of relief and joy began to pervade his being.

                                                                                88888888888888888888888888

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author Notes Image from Google


Chapter 2
Reboot

By zanya

The date was February.

John sold his ten year old Skoda to his local garage. He buttoned up his overcoat as snow flurries fell. His walking boots chaffed a little.

He was conscious of the planet now since Marge died of a rare cancer caused by motor fumes.

Carrying a bag of groceries in the driving rain, he wondered if his resolve would last.

He couldn't resist checking second hand car prices on his phone.

 

Author Notes Image from Google


Chapter 3
For Sale

By zanya

Sir Edward stared at the 'For Sale' sign.
Mordeley Manor had been in his family for three centuries.

He couldn't go through with the sale.
At fifty something, he longed for an heir.
The era of wooing young ladies only existed between the pages of romantic novels.

Action was needed.

His phone pinged. Glancing at the screen he read,'an egg donor with blue blood has been found.'
Sir Edward's heart skipped a beat.


 

Author Notes Image from Google


Chapter 4
The Library

By zanya

With his pile of books under his arm, David opened the library door.

The smell was familiar.

He was alone now. Margot, his beloved, had succumbed to Covid.

'Ah, Mr Smith,'librarian Myrtle called out, 'delighted you have reconnected with the Universe.'

David smiled for the first time in months.

Author Notes Image from Google


Chapter 5
The Barn

By zanya

'Grab a fork from the barn. Give your Grandpop a hand. Goat shed needs cleaning.' Joe called to his teenage grandson, Harry, who had arrived from London.

'Aw naw, Pops, dunno nothin 'bout Goat dung,' Harry muttered.
'Time you learned, young man,' Joe answered.

Harry took a selfie at the goat barn.
'Lads will love this,' Harry laughed.

Harry grabbed a fork and began to shovel alongside Grandpa.
Perspiration rolled down his face.

He almost forgot about his computer game.



 

Author Notes Image from Google


Chapter 6
Scroll Down

By zanya

"Jake, did you ever consider it?" Doug asked.

"Consider what, Dad?" Jake asked, reaching for his can of cool beer.

"Fathering a child".

Jake flinched a little at the direct question from his dad.

Now that his dad, Doug, was soon to be an octogenarian, Jake wanted to spend more time with him. Jake's Chip company was running successfully online since the pandemic, so he wasn't in office everyday.

Regaining his composure, Jake smiled and replied nonchalantly,

"Bit late for that now dad at fifty -seven, don't you think? Task for a younger man."

"With all your women, Jake, you should at least have made provision for an heir. You're a wealthy man and no one to share it."

"What brought this on Dad?" Jake asked, getting slightly irritated.

"Documentary on late night Channel about men who left fatherhood late but still managed to produce an heir. Sperm Donor, they call it. Didn't exist in my day. Back then you almost always knew where you planted your seed. Or at least you hoped so."

As Jake placed his beer can on the patio table, his hand shook a little.

"Do those kids get to meet their dads?" Doug persisted
.
"Dunno, "Jake answered.

Glancing at his father's frail figure in the wicker chair, Doug felt a pang of nostalgia. His dad was once captain of the cricket team. The pair loved their Saturday outings to the local cricket grounds. Without those father/son outings during his growing up years Jake would never have known the joy of playing for his county.

Jake knew it was now or never. He might not get another opportunity.

"You think it's a good idea, Dad, to father a child you may never see?"

"Sure," Doug answered,' leastways you've contributed to the human race."

" D-a-d," Jake stammered "Dad, I've already contributed to the human race."

"With your company investment,maybe?"

"Not just that," Jake answered.

The wicker chair creaked as Doug turned around to look his middle-aged son in the eye.

"You've fathered a child, eh? With some well-heeled woman approaching menopause?,"

'No, Pop, not at all. With some anonymous female somewhere on the planet. But not just one female. I've lost count how many."

Silence reigned briefly between them. Doug leaned forward in his wicker chair, wringing his hands, gnarled with age.

"Scores of heirs, eh Jake? How does that work? How do you buy birthday gifts for them all?"

Jake took out his phone and scrolled down.

"Dad" he said," I do have one son with whom I stay connected. He's twenty now and was orphaned at two when his Mom passed away. He was raised by his step- father."

"Can we go visit him? He's my grandson. Would make an old man happy," Doug said.

Doug struggled to stand upright.

"You know where he lives, of course, don't you?" Doug asked.

"Yes, but..."

"But what? An old man can't visit his grandson, his own flesh and blood?"

"Not really, Pop. You see my legal agreement states that visits are confined to a meeting once every five years. I've already visited Doug this year. So, there can't be another meeting for five years."

"Doug, did you say Doug? Named him after his old Poppy, eh?"

A tear rolled down Doug's cheek.

Jake felt the world he had so carefully constructed around himself begin to unravel.

He began to regret mentioning Doug Jr, the result of his very first donation to the sperm bank. Back then, he was excited at the prospect of producing an heir, though he wasn't yet ready to play an active Dad role.

 
As his company prospered and his days were busy, he finally opted for the anonymous donor category.

'You have a photo?" Doug asked.

Jake handed the phone to his dad, to take a look at the handsome young man with tousled hair and a big happy grin.

Doug stared at length at the photo, refreshing the screen.

"God dammit," he muttered. "My grandson looking back at me through a phone screen. No hope of me giving him a warm grandpa hug. I probably won't be around, Jake, for the next visit in five years. Time is catching up with me."

Jake took his father's hands in his own and looked deep into his father's eyes.

Words were simply inadequate.
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Author Notes Image from Google


Chapter 7
Tuesday

By zanya

The doorbell rang.

 Matty trundled towards the door.

 Tuesday meant  game of boules, a beer and collect his meds.

Opening the door Matty peered into the mist.

A red light flashed. A metal hand reached out to deliver meds.

'‘What the…’ Matty muttered.

‘Fancy a beer later?’ Matty hollered.

 

 

Author Notes Image from Google


Chapter 8
Rusted heartstrings

By zanya

Jimmy was tired.  4.a.m and he departed his country cottage to make it to the port with his first cargo of the day, the long-awaited computer parts. Computer factories didn’t want to be left waiting. Competitors can worm their way into that time lag and beat you to it.

Jimmy loved the dawn quiet on the motorway. Just a few early birds like himself making their first trip of the day. An occasional flash  of glaring headlights pierced the  darkness. Settling comfortably into the driving cab, he was ready for the two- hour journey. A four a.m start meant an early return home, at least by noon.

A siesta, and Jimmy would be ready to  join his pals for a game of boules in the park. Deep down he knew he would not be joining his pals for boules. He hadn’t done that since Marge had passed away.

Returning home by noon Jimmy pulled  into his gravelled driveway and  turned the key in his front door. How he missed his beloved Marge. Marge had departed this life more than two years previously, yet he never fully adjusted to being a widower. Often, he began a conversation with his beloved as he stepped inside the hall door.

‘Eh, Marge, guess what Smithy told us at lunch?’

But silence reigned within the walls and Jimmy recoiled at the prospect of having no one to share his thoughts. A shiver ran down his spine. He wondered, yet again, how long it was going to take to adjust to the reality of his new single status. Often, he didn’t mention it to new colleagues. He felt more comfortable with the idea of being a married man. It was too complicated to deal with. And besides it would draw unwanted sympathy or even  phony expressions of sympathy. Both of these he could do without.

One evening in early spring  as the sun set a little later, Jimmy began to weep bitterly. A long night stretched ahead, unbroken by human company. He finally succumbed to his friend, Tim's suggestion to try a dating app and find a companion. Jimmy’s hand trembled as he tapped the keyboard. He and Marge had forty years of mostly wedded bliss. He dreaded the prospect of modern-day dating with all its instant attraction and serial split- ups.

His phone pinged. It was his old buddy Tim, wondering if he had found a pretty girl yet on the app search. It made Jimmy smile. Still, it stirred his old rusty heartstrings into life.

Who could tell what might happen next?

                                                                       **************************************

 

 

 

Author Notes Image from Google


Chapter 9
The Manor

By zanya

‘Giddy up!’, coachman Harry called out to the two Bays as he rounded the final bend towards Ansfield Manor. Ansfield Manor  was  aglow, among the trees, with their reddish brown, autumn colors.

Just like Harry, the Bays were familiar with every stone on the road. Harry had been coachman at Ansfield for nigh on forty years since he was a young lad of twenty.

 Changes were afoot at Ansfield. His Lordship, Lord Edward, had been absent  for almost a year. Lord Edward, now in his twilight years, rarely stayed away longer than one month.

 Rumours were swirling  among the staff. Lord Edward’s son and heir, Squire Charles, having led a somewhat profligate life of idleness and hedonism was not disposed to take charge of the Manor. Whispers abounded that Lord Edward would be obliged to change the terms of his will. Charles was the only living, legitimate heir. Lord Edward wondered If his bastard son, Marquis Lancelot, sired beneath a tropical sky, might wish to come and reside in a foggy city of London.

As the bays trotted rhythmically through the Manor gates Harry noticed two men standing by the main door. A ‘For Sale ‘sign lay on the cobblestones. Harry’s worst fears began to take shape.

The sound of loud voices could be heard coming from the servants’ quarters. Having untethered the horses, Harry went downstairs. Nothing seemed the same. Chrissie, the cook was bewildered, exclaiming,’ dunno, two teaspoons o’ cinnamon, or is it one for His Lordship? Been such a long time.’ Maggie, her young assistant was  flustered, adding salt instead of sugar to the apples stewing on the stove.

Footman Fred feared his services may be no longer be needed. As if to reassure himself, he paced to and fro, checking the lustre of the shine on  the   riding boots that stood  on the wooden bench. Blowing  particles of dust from the toecaps, he polished vigorously with his well-worn chamois.

Just then the clip clop of horses’ hooves could be heard retreating from the Manor. Peering through the  lattice window, Harry saw the two men with the ‘For Sale’ sign exiting the entrance gate.

‘For Sale’ sign is gone’, Harry shouted to no one in particular. On hearing those words, Chrissie the cook added another teaspoon of cinnamon to the apple strudel and Maggie piled in a small fistful of sugar to the stewing apples. Footman Fred ceased checking the lustre of the toecaps.

Harry however, felt a distinct frisson of fear.

‘Game’s up,’ Harry muttered as he ascended the stone steps from the servants’ quarters.

Joe, the newly -arrived gardener sprinted along the path  from the Orangerie, with his  hoe and spade piled into his wheelbarrow.

‘End of an era, Joe,’ Harry said.

Joe brought his wheelbarrow to a shuddering halt. ‘Ye,’ Joe answered,’ Big House has passed its sell by date.  Grandeur costs money.’

Harry felt a little less fearful.

‘Aye,’ he muttered,’ you young guys  are right. Time to move the dial forward.’

 

                                                         *************************

Author Notes Image from Google


Chapter 10
Anyone for a selfie?

By zanya

Self- portraits are not new. Vincent Van Gogh created more than 30 self- portraits between 1886 and 1889.

The word ‘selfie’ is new. It didn’t exist until 2002. Do selfies now rule the world? There is no escape from them, people  with phones in their hands, raised at a precise angle, to take the ubiquitous selfie.

Any moment in the day can be a selfie moment. Getting on/off trains and boats and planes. Teaching your canine or feline some new tricks. Catching sight of a celeb among the crowd. Mostly though it’s in clothes stores as customers, seemingly forgetting that this is a public space and not their very own boudoir they pout and pose with abandon. They are, It would appear, starring in their own show, oblivious to the public around them. Not only clicking what they wear but also maybe, later on what they ate in their favourite cafe. Next stop is probably Insta or some other social media platform that has an insatiable appetite for selfies of every hue. What is this doing for our youth’s attention span? Are we  turning them into flibbertigibbets?

Chatting with a pal or maybe a bot may precede the moment that is soon to be immortalised. Accidental bumping  and jostling others  on city streets  is common as the subject swaggers and sways as they strive for the best angle and change direction a myriad of times.

Just think what Selfies have done for love. Wow! All that pouting and smacking prep having first carefully glossed and glamorised  those lips.

Where do all the selfies go? Maybe they are glanced at and forwarded to some interested parties after  the moment of creation. Think about how our pals’ eyes generally glaze over when we attempt to have them scroll though the pics of our latest holiday escapade for their benefit. Ennui sets in.

  Or are they saved or archived somewhere to gather digital dust, never to be seen again? Maybe in some archaeological, digital dig, in generations to come they will be uploaded and gazed at in horror by our descendants as they ponder their ancestors and how they  squandered time and energy to indulge their narcissistic tendencies to such an extent and with so much frivolity.

 A generation or so ago a photograph was a precious piece of history or family event, framed and hung in a special place for all to see. Now many photos are nothing more than digital dross, created on a whim and discarded without a second thought.

                                                            Now I feel better.

 

Author Notes Image from Google


Chapter 11
God, do you have a moment?

By zanya

Oops! Not sure I should be so casual in my greeting.

Anyway, I have one pressing concern I want to air with you, God.

Where are we going with AI ? Yes, that’s right. Our very latest new toy, created and fostered by us humans and hailed as one of the most significant developments since the Industrial Revolution is now moving faster than we can handle.

We’ve long since had a ‘taste’ of Alexa and her buddies and all the assistance she can provide to tell us about the weather forecast, stock exchange, election results.

Though Alexa has been around for such a short time, in the scheme of things, she is almost obsolete, so fast is this technology developing.

 AI and its army is on the move towards writing College assignments that are indistinguishable from those written by humans. Some would say they surpass human effort.

AI and its algorithms are  everywhere in our lives, banking, traffic control systems, on line shopping.

Really my question for you, God, and I can’t seem to find an answer anywhere else is, now that AI  is on the  cusp of being sentient what happens next?

A sentient AI. Will it exhibit the whole range of human emotion, anger, joy, sadness and everything else in between? How will we humans handle the anger of a machine? How will we know when it's angry? Will it rattle its various gears or  stomp its mechanical foot, if it has one? When its sad will it shed some smart tears? What chemical will those tears contain?

How will we know when it’s happy? Will it extend its cold, mechanical arm towards us to give us a hug or program a smile on its titanium features?

What if AI becomes so irritated with our slow, unpredictable human behaviours and wants to get rid of us altogether? Will it stage a mechanical coup? What would be its most powerful weapon against us?

These musings may seem far-fetched to some people. But truth to tell AI Is moving a lot faster than we are able to keep pace.

 I’ve searched(Googled!) the Bible and Scriptures and have not found anything that remotely resembles a reference to AI. Was it in your game plan during those seven days when you created the Universe?

Airing these worries in your presence, God, helps a little. Maybe you’re proud of the humans you’ve created and what they can achieve.

God, truth to tell, it all feels a bit scary.

Bye

 

 

 

 

 

Author Notes Image from Google


Chapter 12
Wreckage

By zanya

An October gale hurled debris around as Grandpa Joe struggled to bolt the front door.

‘Bloody hell, never seen anything like it,’ Joe muttered.

‘Global warning, Gramps,’ Mike, his teenage grandson shouted from the kitchen. 'You aul fellas wrecked the planet.’

Glancing furtively at Mike, Joe secretly wondered  if he was right.

Author Notes Image from Google


Chapter 13
Subterranean scholars

By zanya

Snow flurries swirled from a leaden sky. Nine- year- old Yanni laughed. His  twelve- year- old brother, Ivan, pulled him  along on the sled.

Yanni   scratched the scar from the shrapnel, still red raw on  his leg.  

Reaching  the stairs to the metro, Yanni slowly dismounted.  Ivan slung the sled over his shoulder. He hesitated before descending the steps.

‘What’s up bro?’ Yanni asked.

‘What’s the point?’ Ivan muttered,’ just another day of dodging shrapnel?’

 

 

Author Notes Image from Google


Chapter 14
Coins

By zanya

Eight-year- old Tommie ran ahead of grandma as they  walked through the clearing that led into the wood just beyond their home.

‘Careful, Tommie,’ Grandma called after him, 'there’s a lot of debris after last night’s windstorm.’

Tommie was happy to be back out walking in the woods after the winter storm. He loved the crackle of broken twigs as he skipped along. Watching squirrels darting up trees at his approach delighted him.

‘Grandma, grandma,’ he called, ‘ what’s this?' pointing to a fallen ivy- covered tree on the  forest trail.

‘It’s a tree, Tommie,’ Grandma answered.

‘I know that’s  a tree, grandma, but what’s this?’

Grandma plodded along through the broken branches.

Grandma stared at the sight, a mound- like structure covered in moss, which had been camouflaged from the naked eye until the tree was felled in the storm.

‘Tommie, it’s a..it’s a wishing well,’ Grandma sputtered.

‘ A wishing well, grandma,’ Tommie repeated, ‘what’s that?’

Grandma regained her composure before replying, 'a place where you make wishes.’

Grandma stood staring at the well, its bottom half layered in stone but now covered in ivy.

An iron handle protruded atop the well. Grandma grabbed the handle and tried to turn it but it was entangled in brush and briars. But Grandma didn’t give up. She twisted the iron handle a little this way and a little that way until finally she saw it turn. Tommie took hold of the bottom part of the iron handle and helped Grandma.

At length the pair turned the handle and were able to look into the well beneath. Grandma pulled hard at the entangled greenery blocking the well.

‘Grandma, careful, don’t scrape your arms, grandma,’ Tommie shouted.

But Grandma took no notice.

Grandma was torn from her reverie as Tommie enquired,’ have you been here before, Gran?’

Gran stopped clearing the thickets.

‘Yes Tommie, it was here at this wishing well that Grandpa asked me to marry him many moons ago. But it was beautiful then, no shrubbery or briars or thorns.’

‘Why did he ask you to marry him at a wishing well, Grandma? Wasn’t that  a little weird? My school pals’ older brothers ask their girls to marry them at the Eiffel tower or at the Taj Mahal?’

‘Way back then, Tommie, we had hardly heard of the Eiffel Tower. A wishing well was such a special place, filled with good spirits and good luck. But first you had to spin a coin down the well and wait for it to rattle at the bottom. It was then you knew your wish would be granted. Gramps spun a penny and waited for the thud at the bottom. Finally, there was a loud thud and Gramps beamed a large smile, happy in the knowledge that I would be his bride.’

‘A penny, Grandma, where can I find a penny? Teacher says there are only cards now for payment. Papa never pays with pennies. Do you have a penny Grandma, so I can make a wish like Grandpa to find a nice girl to marry when I am older or join papa on the Space Station? 

Or maybe I can find a wishing well on- line and make my wish in cyber space. Ye, that would be a cool story for the guys at school, eh Grandma?’

‘Cyber space and on-line,’ Grandma muttered to herself, 'how sad our precious grand-kids experience life through a screen.’

‘What are you saying, Grandma?' Tommie asked. ‘Screens are great Grandma. How else could I talk with papa every day on the International Space Station if we didn’t have screens. How else could I tell him about being picked for the football team last week or my improved grade in Maths?’

Grandma dried the tears that moistened her ageing eyes and reflected on the generational chasm that lay between them.

‘Yes Tommie’, Grandma answered, ‘You’re right, kids like you have your special moments in cyber space and Grandma has hers  festooned in memory.'

Author Notes Image from Google


Chapter 15
Retro

By zanya

There was a knock on the door.

Jodie continued to scroll on her screen.

‘Who could possibly be visiting gramps at this hour?’ she muttered.

Wrapped up cosy in her neon pink throw, she snuggled down deeper on the couch and scrolled on her screen.

Jodie loved coming to visit her grandparents’ old Victorian house on the edge of the forest, weekends when her grandparents went travelling. Everything about it was retro, window shutters that rattled and squeaked, depending which way the wind was blowing, old travel trunk in the hall, covered in dust.

 Another knock on the door. Jodie was determined to get a  recording of the sound. There seemed to be an extra tap this time. She wondered how long it had been since the first knock on the door. She reckoned, probably ten minutes or so. Time seemed to move slower at Grandpa’s house.

Jodie’s twenty-something patience began to wear thin.

‘Why not ask Calexa,’ she thought.

‘Calexa’. Jodie called out ‘ who’s at the door?’

Silence reigned. Calexa’s green light glowed but all was silent.

Meanwhile, Jodie laughed and joked with her Social Media pals. They  checked out the latest movies and docus streaming on Ret flix. Nobody  could agree on what would be a fun watch for a snowy night of blizzard, all alone and comfy on the edge of the Widgerton Forest.

‘Tap, tap, tap, tap,’ this time there were four taps on the door and Jodie had proof on her phone. But when she tried to send it to her pal, James, it simply vanished.

Jodi called out angrily to Calexa.’ what the hell are you doing Calexa, find out who is at the door? After all you’re cool tech.’

Calexa’s light dimmed and lit up again and flickered and flickered again.

‘Calexa,  what is the matter with you? Why don’t you find out who is knocking on  the door?’

Calexa’s light dimmed low one more time.

Jodie joked and laughed with her mates about how Calexa seemed to be taking the night off or was busy washing her digital locks!.

A few seconds later all went dark in the room. Occasional flashes of lightning lit up the dark space. Thunder rolled in the distance.

‘Tap,’ a single knock on the door.

Jodie snuggled deeper into her neon throw.

 

At 7 a.m, Jodie woke with a start. Dawn was beginning to filter through the shutters. Jodie grabbed her phone and listened for the recording she had made in the night of the knocking on the door.

But there was no recording on her phone. ‘Who would believe her now?’ she wondered.

 Grey light of dawn was now filtering into the room. She decided to investigate.

Peering through the shutters, she noticed  that the cobblestones were still covered in a layer of snow. No footprints were visible by the door.

Slowly lifting the rusty latch on the oaken door, Jodie peeped out.  A branch of the ancient Yew tree hung low over the door, hitting it as the wind picked up.

Jodie laughed loudly at the sight.

‘So, this was the tap-tapping on the door during the night,’ she said to herself.

 

Farmer Andrew Greene was walking past in the laneway in his galoshes,

‘ HI Jodie,’ he called out, with a loud guffaw,’ Hear any ghosts tap- tapping last night. Takes a while to get used to the life of a country bumpkin.’  

Jodie wondered why her pale cheeks began to burn. Probably with embarrassment, she mused.

 

Jodie rushed inside and glanced at Calexa on the window sill. Her green light burned brightly.

‘Hi Calexa, can you teach me about the life of a country bumpkin.?’

Calexa’s light flickered. Before a long winded Calexa answer began to pour out, Jodie disconnected Calexa.

Grandpa’s key turned in the lock and Jodie ran to throw her arms around him.

‘Eh Jodie, ‘ Grandpa said,’ Happy to see your old Gramps, eh? Wonder what brought that on?

Perhaps Calexa doesn’t have all the answers even for Gen Z?’ Grandpa remarked.

 

 

 

 

 

Author Notes Image from Google


Chapter 16
Blue Screen

By zanya

Horns honked in the street below. Rubbing sleep from his thirty-five- year old eyes, Jake fumbled on his bedside table to find his phone.

Scrolling  down, a blue screen appeared.

‘Damn it,’ he muttered,’ ‘ Global Glitch?’

Grandma’s old chimer in the lounge rang  out five bells for 5 a.m. ‘Thanks Gran,’ he muttered,  checking his tech.

His apartment was strangely quiet. No charger blue lights  or wake up call from Alexa.

‘Digital dystopia?’ he muttered

Author Notes Image from Google.
This little tale inspired by today's(July 19th 2024) Global Glitch in technology systems worldwide.


Chapter 17
To Let

By zanya

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Cath and John  had  been together for  a whole month. They  gazed lovingly into each other’s eyes and whispered sweet nothings.

 So when they found a tiny studio ten minutes from campus, they deposited their meagre belongings and set sail on a sea of love's bliss.

John loved having no brother to fight with about gaming all night. Cath could indulge her passion for fashion on Tk Tk with no annoying  interruptions from her kid sister.

Alas, love, untended, withered on the vine. The tiny studio soon had another ‘To Let’ sign.

Author Notes Image from Google


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