Multi Stories

Micro short stories by Ian Ravenscroft

[multi-stories]

Youth

I can’t stop thinking about the tragedy of childhood. The sadness. The heartache. The grazed knees and bruised shins. The ice cream headaches and staircase stumbles. The wet sheets and dropped lollipops. The balloons let go and and nettles grasped. The sadness that pervades the memory of being young. And despite the happiness and play and unencumbered filth, there’s melancholy. Deep, unremembered melancholy. You never knew it at the time, that’s the kicker. You never knew you’d only get one shot. You only ever had one of each first time. There was no manual. No cheat codes. No induction training day with pamphlets and biscuits. And that’s where the sadness creeps. Looking back on youth is a litany of the missed and misremembered. It’s a black hole, so massive you can’t see the edges. But observed from afar it is clear and all-consuming. That’s the tragedy of youth. You’re losing it in every moment you have it.

[multi-stories]

Reboot

On my 32nd birthday, I found a button on my back.

I’d never looked before. Too twisty. But there it was. A shiny red button, protruding from my spine.

I was more confused than shocked. Why had no one had ever mentioned it? Parents, lovers, swimming class buddies, sunbathers, doctors... none of them thought to tell me?

Unless it only appeared today. But that raises more questions. How? Why me? Why now?

But no question was bigger than this. Should I press it?

I like buttons. Especially big clicky ones. Like the ones you’d get in a 70′s sci-fi film. I wonder if this one did a big click? Or would it has a satisfying clunk? Or would it beep?

Red is such a tempting colour for a button. Too tempting. They should make more buttons in unappealing colours. Like sludge brown. Or grey. I might not even notice a grey button. But a red one? Phwoar. I want to press it.

I reached my hand around, just for a little touch. What did it feel like? Was it plastic? Or metal? But I couldn’t reach. From the bottom or top, no luck. I’m not flexible enough. I knew I shouldn’t have scoffed at yoga.

I stood up and looked in the bathroom mirror. There was no discernible text on it. No symbols to indicate function. Just a round red button, slightly out of reach.

Hours passed, and I still hadn’t pressed it. I’d written down a list of pros and cons but most of the pros were “Why not?” and all of the cons were “But what if?”

I’d lived a life of “But what if”. Maybe it was the moment I said “Why not?”. Maybe it was the moment I’d been waiting for my entire life.

I took a deep breath and looked over my shoulder into the mirror. I picked up my toothbrush, just long enough to bridge the gap to the button, and closed my eyes.

“Why not?”

I pressed the button.

After what seemed an age, I opened my eyes. I was still in the bathroom. But everything seemed bigger somehow. I was looking directly up at the ceiling. Had I fallen? Was I dead?

And then, before I could do anything about it, two huge hands loomed into view, eclipsing the bulb above me and engulfed my body. I became weightless, flying up towards the ceiling fan, the room whooshing around me until I finally stopped and had a clear grip on something solid.

From where I was, I could see in the mirror. What I saw, I could not compute. A woman, facing away, with a tiny, crumpled face peeking out from over her shoulder. A baby. Staring right at me.

The woman patted the baby’s back, saying unintelligible words that rang loud in my ears. And even stranger, I felt the pats on my back.

It took milliseconds to work out the next bit.

I was a baby.

A tiny baby.

Suffice to say, the next 32 years were very interesting.

I grew up again. I did all the things I’d done previously, childhood, puberty, university, work, relationships... I did it all again, but this time with the knowledge of a previous life to help me. I knew the pitfalls, and the short cuts. The mistakes to avoid and the ones to do all over again. I was driving along the road of life, but I could skip ahead and check the route.

I awoke on my 32nd birthday for the second time. I walked to the bathroom, which is significantly bigger and nicer than the first time I might add, and looked in the mirror.

There it was. The button was back. Back on my back. Shiny, red, and slightly out of reach.

I smirked. Not this time. I’d done life right. I had the script when no one else did. It was perfect. Why would I start again? Although, not everything went exactly to plan. The yacht incident wasn’t the most edifying. And I’d never had that much fame before. Surely I could have handled that a bit better. And I don’t know what’s coming. What if I screw it up? But then the baby phase was really dull. That’s a few years I might not want back.

I couldn’t believe I was considering it. But considering it I was.

It all came down to what sort of life I wanted to lead. “But what if?” or “Why not.”

Without a second more thought, I pushed the button.

When I awoke, the room looked big again. I was staring at the ceiling again. And the hands came in a lifted me again. A new start, a fresh life.

I looked in the mirror, peeking over the shoulder of the woman once again.

A tiny, crumpled face stared back.

But it was different this time. Its hair was was long. Grey. Its eyes, tiny glittering marbles with long lines drawing down across the cheeks like ravines.

I was an old man. A very old man.

Suffice to say, the next 24 hours was very interesting.

[multi-stories]

In Your Dreams

Every night I dreamt of Jenny. But now I don’t dream at all.

When I closed my eyes she was there. That smile. That look. Never seen fully, but in fragments. A beam of light refracted into a thousand ephemeral shards.

But in the morning she'd be gone. I couldn’t picture her face, or hear her laugh. I couldn’t remember her eyes, or the way she moved. There was a hole. A void. A blind spot in my conscious thought.

But for eight hours every night, life was perfect. I closed my eyes and opened a door, stepping through into a world where everything was better.

We’d do everything together. Everything I’d ever wanted to do. Trips to Paris. Camping weekends. Late nights with records and whisky. Long drives. Short walks. Closeness, joy. 

I thought about flying, or travelling in time. In my dreams, anything was possible. But with Jenny, it wasn’t. It was real. It wasn’t fantasy. It was living with my eyes closed. I couldn’t fly if I tried.

But after eight hours of escape, reality always hits. 

Rain, bus, work, eat. Rain, bus, work, eat. Rain, bus, work, eat. Rain, bus, work, eat. Every day the same. Every day a harder slap in the face than the last. 

Getting home was a relief. Nearly time for sleep. Nearly time for life to feel real again. To feel whole.

Until one winter day.

I turned the key in the latch and entered my apartment. Jenny was sitting on the floor.

“I need to talk to you.”

I couldn’t speak.

“I’ve been having the strangest dreams.”

I couldn’t move.

“But I don’t think they’re dreams at all.”

I couldn’t think.

“They’re real. More real than real. More true than life.”

Jenny stood up, came close, and whispered.

“I know you know too. I’ve seen you. I’ve felt you.”

I looked at her, seeing her fully for the first time, but recognising each aspect with intense familiarity. 

“I’m going there. And I’m not coming back.”

Her eyes were locked on mine. A fire behind them. The most real I’d ever seen them.

“Come with me.”

And those were the last words I ever heard her say.

She fell away from me and fell silent.

Every night I closed my eyes but she was gone. And I never dreamt again.

[multi-stories]

Irrational Things I Do Every Day

Play out conversations in my head hours in advance Wonder whether my cats like me or not Read Twitter like it will enable me to one day decipher the human condition Worry about whether I’m at all useful in a universal, human sense Think about how I can streamline my life so it runs like clockwork Assume that the logical, reasonable, sensible result will win out Admonish myself for forgetting the bigger picture Compare myself to more successful people Buy lunch when I have all the means to make it myself Keep thoughts to myself in the hope they’ll just blow over Make several trips between the kettle, fridge, and bin due to poor planning Stress about situations I can’t influence in any way Write lists like this one that I will never read again

[multi-stories]

The Phoenix and the Cockroach

What if a spark was the end of the beginning

And a flame the beginning of the end

What emerges from the ashes?

The phoenix through blackened skies

Or the cockroach across charred earth?

If only we knew

Before the match was struck

[multi-stories]

Whatif, Whatif, Whatif

Whatif’s mind was racing with a thousand possibilities. 

“I could do this or this or this or that!” he bellowed.

“Are you sure?” asked Howso, looking up from his reading. “Have you asked That or This about that?”

“He didn’t ask me, or This,” called That

“That’s right” said This.

“True. But I just can.” Whatif replied.

“How so?” asked Howso, adjusting his glasses.

“I just could. I could do anything,” Whatif insisted.

“You could do what?!” said Anything.

"I could do anything, Anything. Why not?” Whatif responded.

“Hello? Did someone call?” replied Whynot.

“Not me,” blurted Someone.

“What now?” moaned Notme.

“What did I do?” Whatnow protested.

“Not you Whynot. Or you Notme. Or you Whatnow.” assured Whatif, “And Someone and Anything, I’m not calling anyone.”

Anyone sighed. “No one ever does.”

“I called you last week,” protested No-one.

“No, no, no, no, no Noone and Anyone. I was just saying...” Whatif began.

“Oh, I see. It’s always me is it?” said Justsaying.

“I wasn’t talking to you. I was just saying, Justsaying, I could do any thing I wanted to. Anywhat, anyhow, anywhere, anywhy.”

“Well, we all disagree,” proclaimed Anyway, Anyhow, Anywhere, and Anywhy in unison.

“But what if I can do anything I choose, whenever, and wherever I want?” countered Whatif.

“You can’t!!” screamed Whenever.

“It wouldn’t be fair!” added Wherever.

“Whatever,” said Whatif, rolling his eyes.

“I don’t mind.” Whatever murmured. “Knock yourself out.”

“Hey!” Yourself shouted, jumping from his seat. “You just try it.”

“Woah, calm down! I was just saying I could do anything, anywhere, anyhow I want. Whatever I like, whenever I fancy. This or that. With someone or no-one. Why not?”

“Oh, I see.” said Everyone. 

“Oh I see,” said everyone else.

“Good. Finally we agree,” said Whatif, relieved.

“Yes,” said Everyone, speaking on behalf of the group.

“Not me,” said Howso.

“Oh, for God’s sake. Forget it.” sighed Whatif. 

“Whats wrong with you?” asked No-one.

“I’m not with him, he’s mental,” said Whatswrong.

“Oh for fuck’s sake” shouted everyone, except Everyone, who was crying into his hands.

“WHEN WILL THIS END?!” he screamed.

“Never” replied Whenwillthisend. 

“Will everyone just shut up!” shouted Whatif.

“Why always me. WHY ALWAYS ME?” blubbed Everyone.

Everyone stood up, ran towards the window and jumped, sending shards of bloodied glass flying across the room. 

Everyone was suddenly silent. Both Everyone, who was now dead, and everyone else looking down on Everyone’s broken body on the pavement below.

“Fuck me.” said Whatif as Fuckme passed out.

“So... shall we stop now?” asked Whynot.

“Um... Yes. I think the experiment is over,” agreed Howso. “Class, please use your real names for the rest of the day. You can call me Mr Graham again.”

The philosophy class nodded, still in shock from Peter’s suicide.

“Darren. Can you phone an ambulance?” Mr Graham asked calmly.

“Why me?” asked Darren, to a furious glare from his classmates.

Mr Graham slowly put on his coat and grabbed his briefcase.

“Goodbye everyone. Especially Everyone. It’s been a pleasure teaching you.”

Mr Graham ran from the classroom.

He was never seen again.

[multi-stories]

Ghost Lottery

What if a ghost told you the lottery numbers?

Would you rush down to the newsagents and get a ticket? Or would you melt down into a existential crisis in which your entire belief system crumbles and reality shattered around you in a paranormal awakening of the mind?

If you don’t believe in ghosts, it would be a stretch to take him at his word. And if you didn’t play the lottery either? Well, that would be a bit hard to stomach, all told.

But, devil’s advocate. Let’s say you believe the ghost. He seems trustworthy enough. You’d note down the numbers gratefully, stroll to the shop, fill in the slip with the tiny pen, buy the ticket, and wait for the draw. That would be easy enough, right?

But by playing along would you also be accepting the existence of spirits, spectres, and ghouls in everyday life? Would buying a ticket make you a believer? Would you be acknowledging the spectral plane?

And what if they made the lottery draw that night, the white gloves holding each coloured ball aloft in turn, and the numbers came out differently to the ghost’s assertion? What would that mean? Did a real ghost get the lottery numbers wrong? Or did a fake ghost make you believe you’d win the lottery?

But what if you did win? What if by some miracle, you got the numbers right thanks to a benevolent apparition? You’d be a millionaire overnight. Rich beyond your wildest dreams. But would you live as a millionaire with a dark secret, or a millionaire that openly believed in ghosts with future-gazing abilities? Could you keep such a thing secret? Would you want to inform the world and risk being branded a loon? Or would you take the cash and keep quiet?

And what of the ghost? Whose ghost was it? Is that even how ghosts work? What if he was telling you the lottery numbers for some express purpose? What if you were meant to do something in return? A paranormal pact between you and it. Would you be in debt to something that until that morning you didn’t believe existed?

And what if there were other ghosts? What if another ghost turned up and asked you to do something? Would you do it? The new ghost would be able to point to your mansion and say “Well, you did it for that ghost. Why not me?” And he’d have a point. Do you want to owe a ghost? Do you want to be blackmailed by a ghost?

And what happens if the original ghost returns and wants a slice? A finder’s fee? A percentage on your miraculous win? Would you agree? Would you be able to say no to a clairvoyant ghost who changed your life in an instant? What if the ghost helped others? What if by keeping quiet, you were propagating lottery fraud on a potential enormous scale? Could you live with that?

Maybe you and the ghost became friends. Maybe he helps you out again. He tells you the football scores. Or warns you of an impending disaster. “Don’t get the train today” he whispers cryptically, following up immediately with “Because it’s going to crash of course. I really should be more clear when I say these things.” Would you get the train? Try to warn the authorities? Would they believe you? Or would you be another crank, suddenly in the frame for an accident that no longer looks like one.

Or do you ignore the ghost on first meeting? You don’t take the lottery numbers. You carry on with your day. You try not to think about the ghost or anything remotely ghostly. You try to pretend it was all in your head. You try to avoid hearing the lottery results that night. You admonish yourself for thinking back to that foggy morning on the railway bridge. You want to move on. 

But it’s all too much. You can’t handle the consequences either way. The box has been opened. You’re damned if you do, damned if you don’t. You either know too much, or not enough. You’re trapped. It’s Catch-22. You can’t stop the voices. You can’t stop the wondering, the worrying. The conflict. You’re painted into a ghostly corner. It’s the end of the line. 

You lose your job in the stress. Your family moves out. No one knows what is consuming you from the inside out. You don’t know what else to do.

So you walk up to the railway bridge where the ghost first appeared. You climb up onto the mossy wall, looking down to the trembling rails below. You hear the wind whistling through the trees. You close your eyes. You take a deep breath. And you jump.

It’s over in a millisecond. 

But somehow you wake up. 

You are back on the railway bridge. 

A man approaches you, face white with fear.

He reaches out with a trembling hand

He looks just like you.

He is you.

You whisper the lottery numbers in his ear.

You disappear.

[multi-stories]

Shampoo

What if shampoo is controlling our minds?

Think about it. If you were going to control the minds of the nation, how would you do it? You’d need a way to get into their heads. Right into their heads.

Looking back, my mind control theories had never quite clicked. TV and radio were way off. Too passive. Microwaves was a non-starter due to my dietary requirements. And vaping was close, but no cigar.

Either they worked and people had built a resistance to it, or they never worked at all. ‘They’ need something stronger now. Something more direct. Something chemical. I’m sure of it.

People go on about it being the water supply. Yawn. Point taken, but I drink water all the time and my mind is completely free and clear, so let’s consider that debunked right off the bat. And the tin foil hat thing? Doesn’t work. How can you rule out someone tampering with the tin foil?

I needed to dig deeper. I knew there was something missing. Something obvious. So I secluded myself for a week to think. I didn’t eat. I barely slept. I didn’t answer my mother’s calls from upstairs. I was scratching my head trying to work it out. And then it hit me. Why was I scratching my head?

I hadn’t showered.

Yes. In my week of seclusion I had developed a mild case of dandruff. So far, so normal. Whenever I scratched my head, a fine mist of white powder dusted my shoulders. And what was my first instinct? “I should wash my hair.” 

Of course it was. It’s obvious now you know it. The answer hidden in plain site. Those sneaky fuckers. Those sneaky fucking fuckers. 

I had been conditioned to use shampoo.

It made so much sense. Direct application of chemicals to the scalp, seeping into the brain, shackling our freedom. And what happens when you get shampoo in your eyes? It blinds you. Yes. Blinds you from the TRUTH.

I ran to the bathroom and grabbed the bottle of blue liquid from the shower and screamed. You traitor. You bastard. You sweet-smelling judas. Thought you could fool me, didn’t you? Ha ha. No more.

Down the drain I poured those eight bottles. Why did I have so much? A side-effect of the control mechanism I can only assume. And soon it was gone.

Weeks passed without using shampoo. At first, I’ll admit, my hair was pretty bad, particularly around the ponytail, but what was to be expected? I was going cold turkey. My follicles couldn’t handle the freedom. But soon, the natural oils began to return and so did my faculties. The fog was lifting. The suds were being washed from my eyes.

And it turns out hair is self-cleaning. What a surprise. It’s almost as if we don’t need shampoo. 

Eventually, after a period of elation with my new-found mental capacity, I went public. I had to. People needed to know. So I toured the barbers and salons. I staged interventions in supermarkets. I even wrote to L’Oreal for comment, but their representatives insisted I “wasn’t worth it”.

I can only assume people want to be controlled. They need to be controlled. People can’t handle the truth. Not the real truth, anyway. They are sheep with shampoo in their wool, and the wool pulled over their eyes. And that stinging sensation? Well, the truth hurts.

So this is my plea to you. Next time you shower, think twice. Maybe thrice in bad cases. Unless the suds have already dulled your judgement, you can take back your mind. You can un-bung your thoughts.

Don’t submit to control. Free your mind. Don’t use shampoo.

[multi-stories]

Art

What if art and religion were exactly the same thing?

I’m not religious. I have no faith at all. But through art, perhaps I can understand why people do.

Art has existed since the very beginnings of humanity. It is an elemental, primal force we’ve always known.

It gives people a lens through which to understand the world.

It provides meaning where there is none and exposes truth where there is.

It is a framework that can be applied to all aspects of life.

It can be interpreted as an individual, whilst affecting the thinking of billions.

It has schools of thought, varying practices, and myriad ways of manifesting itself in our lives.

Some people love it. Some people hate it. Some are wildly indifferent.

It can sooth the mind and infuriate. It can clarify as well as confuse.

It presents expressions of humanity how ever much you agree with its point of view.

It is universal and personal all at once.

So maybe they are more similar than you might think.

Maybe art is faith. Maybe faith is art.

What if all this time, we were equals? Thinking things. Doing things. Expressing ourselves as best we can.

Just trying to find meaning in a meaningless world.

What if art and religion were exactly the same thing?

[multi-stories]

Extracts From The UK Government Public Policy Comments Box 2006-2046

June 2006: "What If They Moved England To The Equator?"

July 2016: "Can we close the loophole that allows unaddressed public comments to become official policy after 10 years?”

August 2016: "Can we reverse the decision to move England to the Equator? I burn very easily.”

September 2016: “I am submitting a formal request for the Minister responsible for checking the public policy comments box to be sacked immediately. Lock him up!"

October 2016: “Please. Don’t move our country!!! Please!!!”

November 2016: “Request for Scotland to remain in position as England is relocated to the Equator. Ta.”

December 2016: “I can’t believe this is happening! Stop this madness! My house straddles the border! My parents live in Edinburgh!”

January 2017: “We’re only down near Spain and I’m melting! I hate coconuts! I hate palm trees! I hate sand! I hate sunshine! I can’t handle this. Can we stop this before it’s too late! Please!”

February 2017: “Well, you fucked this right up. I run a ski shop and now it’s on the fucking equator you fucking fucks. This is my comment: Fuck you.”

March 2017: “I left a suitcase in a hotel in Glasgow before they found me. Can we go back and get it? It’s got my straighteners in it.”

April 2017: “Well, here we are. On the Equator. It’s actually quite nice here. I’ve been saying it for years. For once, the government listens to the people.”

May 2017: "There is a tarantula on my crumpets. A tarantula. In Essex. On my crumpets. Please do something about this.”

June 2017: “How is the Minister still in his post? How? Please sack this imbecile! Now!"

July 2017: "Frankly, I feel the Equator Day Anniversary Celebrations completely misjudged the tone. I’ve seen riots, but wow, this was something else. A lady was on fire. Well done.”

August 2018: “The queue for the suntan lotion ration station was unacceptable this morning. Unacceptable. Un-British. People were jumping the queue. There was tutting. Pandemonium.”

September 2020: “There is some excess ground water on the A416 to Bedford. Not urgent, but can someone please address this?”

October 2027: “I woke up to find my car floating past my bedroom window. We’re sinking. The country is sinking and who is doing anything about it. Is anyone even reading these anymore???!”

November 2033: “The remaining members of our town have taken shelter in a cave off Devon. If you are reading this, send supplies. Bring lifeboats.”

December 2045: “This is my final will and testament. Goodbye ‘Great' Britain. Goodbye this fair and pleasant land. Goodbye Everything that made us British. The sun. The sweltering heat. The coconuts. Fish and plantain chips. The monkeys.  We have lost everything. And now we, a once-proud sea-faring nation are now returned to its watery depths. A fitting end perhaps, but one not without its ironies. Goodbye. From the Equatorial Nation of Once-Great Britain-on-Sea, I salute you. Yours, Gerald.”

January 2046: “I made an error with the address on the last message you received. Please accept my apologies. Yours, Gerald.”

[multi-stories]

Office Nudes

What if I turned up to work naked?

I always had thoughts like this at work. Spinning on my chair, pen in mouth, dreaming of alternate realities.

What would people say? They’d see everything. Bits and bobs on full display. It’d be hilarious.

I usually thought them when I was supposed to be doing something very important, like sending a big email or phoning someone important to tell them bad news. That’s when the thoughts came the most.

Free and easy. Balls swaying in the breeze of a rotating desk fan. What fun that’d be. I knew very early on that these thoughts were just a diversion from my actual responsibilities. But I couldn’t stop. It was too much fun escaping into my mind to create a new world for myself.

I wonder who’d be the most shocked in the office. Brenda? Nah. Probably Josh. He’s so uptight. Always tutting as he photocopies his life away. What a prude. He’d hate the sight of my bare body. Hate it.

I wouldn’t mind everyone else being naked too. I mean, it could get awkward for them. And it does make lunch a little trickier. But only at first. After a while it would become as normal as being naked in the shower, or in bed, or while watching TV, or in the garden.

The funny thing is, I’ve discovered I’m actually not ashamed of my body. Other people are, sure, but I can’t control that. I’ve got what I’ve got, and by jove I’m going to enjoy it while I can. Even if my last few girlfriends didn’t agree.

Animals haven’t ever had a problem with it. Ever seen a sparrow in pants? No. I probably see a dog penis about three or four times a week just getting the bus to work. We need to release ourselves from our shame. We need to free our minds. We need to get naked.

As I always say, there’s nothing wrong with escapism. Humans have been escaping into ourselves since we first developed conscious thought. In many ways, consciousness is imagination. I mean, life is just a mental construct we've fabricated to give our lives structure and a semblance of meaning.

There’s an argument to say that all of our lives are just projections of our inner minds. We are all protagonists in our very own reality show. Just figments of fragments strung together by our neurons and synapses. An utterly believable, immersive web of lights and colours and sounds that create the convincing lie we need to continue existing.

Perception in many ways is the barometer of how engaged with the truth you are. I feel liberated by my perception of life as ultimately futile. But many perceive life to be real and serious and deserving of special attention. Good luck with that. Unfortunately my perception differs to yours.

Anne from HR stood in front of me, looking past my naked body into the middle distance, scared to make eye contact with anything that wasn’t an eye.

“You’re... you’re fired,” she stuttered.

I sighed, rolling me eyes.

“It’s just a matter of perception, Anne.”

“And HR perceives you to be in contravention of our guidelines. Please pack up your things and leave.”

“I just have this pen.“

I held up my pen giving Anne something else to focus on that wasn’t my pubic hair.

“Please... leave.”

I left the office and got back on the bus. No one sat next to me again. What poor, unenlightened fools they must be.

I chewed my pen and began to dream bigger and better than I ever had before. I’m free. I’m free. I’m free to be whatever I want to be.

I saw a dog and smiled.

[multi-stories]

Maurice

"What if I told you that Gravity was man-made?"

"I'd say you were an idiot."

I'd known Maurice for twenty-three years and this conversation had happened at least once a week since we met on that fateful school trip to Jodrell Bank observatory.

Looking at it one way, he was the most persistent man I'd ever known. Looking at it another, I'd been calling him an idiot on a weekly basis for the majority of his life. At least you knew where you stood with Maurice.

"It's the core."

"Yes, it's magnetic. I think you mentioned it a few times before."

"Exactly! Magnetic core!"

I didn't bother asking how he thought a magnetic core would keep people on the surface, but only because I already knew.

"They implant metal into us at birth."

"They."

"You know about They?!"

"Only from what you've told me."

"Oh, yeah, sure. Well, they've been at it for years. Keeping us down. Limiting our potential. Stopping us from leaving."

"But what about rockets?"

"Plausible deniability. You only need rockets if gravity exists. And what are rockets made of? Metal."

"So why doesn't wood or plastic just float away?"

Maurice always went quiet when I asked him this, deep in thought. You could hear the cogs turning in his head but there was never a sign of the cuckoo.

"I haven't worked that out yet."

A week later, the subject would be broached again. And then the following week. And the week after that.

And then one week, Maurice didn't bring it up. Nor a week later. 

Months past. I was concerned. More so than usual. Had I finally broken him down?

"Mate?"

"Yeah?"

"You still working on that gravity theory?"

"Which one?"

"You know. The Earth's core. Being man made?"

"Oh that? No."

I was stunned.

"Any reason?"

"It's no longer necessary."

"O...k."

"Hold this."

Maurice produced a small box from his pocket and handed it to me.

"Open it."

Nervously, I opened the lid. Inside was a switch.

"Go on. Flick it."

I didn't know what to do. What if he'd truly lost the plot? I didn't like flicking mysterious switches handed to me by potentially unhinged people, no matter how well I knew them.

"Trust me. Flick it.

I took a deep breath and flicked the switch.

Maurice grinned.

"Believe me now?"

I didn't. I sat there, staring back at him. Half in pity, half in genuine fear for his sanity.

But then I noticed something odd. Everything around me was getting smaller. Maurice, trees, cars, houses.

I floated away, up from the bench and out of the park. Up, up and away through the clouds and blinking into the bright light of the morning sun.

I floated for what seemed like eternity. The whole earth beneath me, shining like a marble in an oil slick.

And as I reached the outer limits of the atmosphere I began to expand. Growing, growing, growing, until I was three times my natural size.

And then I popped.

It's fair to say I would never doubt Maurice again.

[multi-stories]

Toast

"What if we discovered a piece of toast on Mars? What would it mean? It would be significant right? A real breakthrough! Fame at last!"

Joe began packing his things into a cardboard box. He'd enjoyed working at NASA. But all those years training, learning, mastering astrophysics, and climbing the greasy pole of progress suddenly seemed like a waste of a life.

He held a small replica Mars Rover aloft in the light of the control room, admiring it's spare design and precise engineering. What a simple beautiful thing they had built, he thought.

Joe threw it in the box and began the lonely trudge past his former colleagues who averted their gaze to their computer monitors and shoes.

He reached the door and turned back for one last look at Houston, gulping back a tear.

"I didn't put the toast there," he shouted into the room. "I found it. On the surface. A sign of life. You believe what you want!"

A security guard took Joe tenderly by the arm, leading him away.

"And what about the butter? Huh? You think the rover spread that itself? How did it survive the atmosphere? It wasn't even burnt! Think about it. Not possible!"

"Come now Dr Francis," the security guard murmured.

"WHY WOULD I DO THIS TO MYSELF? SCIENCE IS MY LIFE! WE FOUND TOAST ON MARS GODDAMMIT. TOAST ON MARS!"

Joe is yanked towards the exit.

“CONSPIRACY! CONSPIRACY!"

As Joe's writhing silhouette disappeared from the frosted glass doors of the control centre, Major Nyman turned from the window high above the sea of desks and smirked, pulling a scrap of paper from his breast pocket. 

He read from the scrawled biro handwriting.

"What if we discovered a piece of toast on Mars? What would it mean? It would be significant right? A real breakthrough! Fame!"

"They... They found it in his desk drawer?"

"Of course."

"And they... bought it?"

Nyman inhaled deeply, slowly tearing up the paper note and dropping the fragments into the bin.

"People aren't ready for the truth, Professor.  The human brain can't take it. One day, they'll realise, sure. But by then it will be too late."

"But sir, what about-?"

"-They just aren't ready for the truth, Harrison. They never will be."

Professor Harrison nodded reluctantly, wringing his hands before turning to leave.

In the gloom of the empty boardroom Major Nyman took a bite of toast, his grin showering a constellation of crumbs onto the dark galaxy of his suit.

"They never will be."