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.
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| Author Notes | Image from Google |
By zanya
| Author Notes | Image from Google |
By zanya
| Author Notes | Image from Google |
By zanya
| Author Notes | Image from Google |
By zanya
| Author Notes | Image from Google |
By zanya
| Author Notes | Image from Google |
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 |
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 |
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 |
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 |
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 |
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 |
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 |
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.
| Author Notes | Image from Google |
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 |
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