(///awaited.passively.landings – Stonehenge, UK)

“Checks complete,” Artellus confirmed, as he put the final tick on his pre-flight list. “All set?”

Ondonippian nodded his assent. “The moment has finally arrived,” he said wistfully.

Artellus nodded. “I know, I know. I can barely remember the number of landings we have had here, the happy times we have spent. For us to now be the final two, for the colony to be abandoned forever, well it is a terrible thing.”

“But we know the situation. No point in sitting passively by. History must not say they simply awaited their destiny, even though they knew what was to come. We will not be judged kindly.”

“Correct.” Artellus began to fire up the craft.

The warning light flashed and an ominous alarm assailed their ears. The alarm they had hoped they would not hear.

“They are here, we must go now!” Ondonippian shouted.

“Agreed!” and Artellus fired up the booster rockets to send them rising steeply into the air.

“Evasive manoeuvres!” Ondonippian yelled, and then marvelled at the skill of his fellow pilot as he weaved in and out of the oncoming fusillade of energy beams.

“We just have to escape the atmosphere,” Artellus wheezed in reply, exhausted from the effort he was expending to both fly and dodge simultaneously, while powering the craft beyond anything it had done before. But the exertions paid off. Within a minute they were breaking out of the sky, into the space beyond where they could hurtle towards safety..

The Glenbromticles who had fired at them didn’t bother to chase. Frankly, killing a couple of Zendoks had not been the point of this mission. No, the point had been to demonstrate that nowhere in the universe was safe, and if they had discovered this distant outpost after all this time, well they could find them anywhere.

It was time to deliver a message, so that in the unlikely event the Zendoks tried to return, they would understand the peril. They rained fire down on the buildings that remained, swiftly obliterating the ornate wooden structures. They fired lasers at the central stone room, the seat of Zendok power on this world, destroying some parts, leaving others intact, so that all that was left was a circle of randomly spaced stone blocks, some still with a little of the roof on top of them. And then they departed.

Centuries passed. The countryside grew verdant around the stone circle. The planet’s inhabitants who came after these events stood in wonder and gave the stones mystical power as they pondered their origins. And people flocked from all corners to gaze at them, to perform rituals and to sell tacky souvenirs.

The Glenbromticles had long been wiped out. One day, the Zendoks vowed to return to reclaim their favourite colony.

_____

Why this location?

(///swing.brick.umbrellas – Oxfam Shop, Winchester, UK)

“Do you ever wonder about all the things in here, the lives they’ve lived?” Frank asked Bernie as he glugged his cup of tea.

“They’re inanimate objects,” Bernie replied kindly, hoping that the older man wasn’t displaying early signs of senility.

“I know that,” Frank chuckled. “But people bring in boxes and boxes of donations. Think about all the stories these objects have been part of, the people who’ve surrounded them, what might come next after sitting on our shelves. A charity shop is a microcosm of social history.”

“I guess,” Bernie mused, nibbling on a Bourbon biscuit, while wondering exactly what Frank had put in his tea.

“Take those umbrellas,” Frank continued, gesturing at a rack of them. “Maybe one walked the Open Golf Course. Or starred in Mary Poppins. Or was used as a murder weapon!”

“Or kept someone dry,” Bernie suggested. Frank glared at him.

“Open your mind to the possibilities,” he continued. “Those children’s toys, that train set, that swing. Imagine the laughter and fun of playtime, think about that child growing up and handing the toys on, think about the pleasure still to come.”

Bernie reached for another biscuit. He figured he might need some chocolate Digestives after this.

“This box makes me sad though,” Frank continued. “Old Malcolm brought this in. His wife died last week, tripped and fell through their glass patio doors, tired apparently from too much chamomile tea. Deirde often used to pop in for a chat though, so tragic. She used to buy little things, said Malcolm didn’t mind though it looked like she didn’t mean it. So sad.”

Frank picked through the box a little more and then sat up a bit straighter, his back stiffened slightly. He moved a few things around, put a few more on the counter, looked at them for a few moments.

“What is it?” Bernie asked.

Frank shook his head. “Deirdre didn’t die by accident. She was murdered. Look, Frank is giving away all the evidence, it’s here.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Here’s a teapot, faint whiff of chamomile. His fingerprints must be on it. This floor mat. Really shiny underfoot, would slip on a polished floor. This lego brick. Actually all these mini bricks. She would have trodden on them and lost her balance. And this carriage clock. Deirdre only bought it a couple of weeks ago. She joked that Malcolm would kill her if she bought something else we don’t need. And now he’s giving it all away. He mustn’t get away with it.”

Bernie sighed. “Hardly conclusive,” he advised.

“Nevertheless, I’m going to the police,” Frank said, hurriedly collecting up his clues. Bernie shook his head. Maybe it was early senility all along.

A week later Bernie was sitting in the shop munching on a Kit-Kat when Frank burst in. “What’s up?”

“I was right, Malcolm confessed!”

Bernie almost dropped his chocolate. “That’s amazing, congratulations. You caught a killer. And to think, you solved it from the contents of his box.”

Frank scratched his chin slightly. “Well not exactly,” he said. “Apparently he no longer loved Deirde and couldn’t stand the smell of the chamomile any more so he simply shoved her through the window and said it was an accident. What he was giving away was, well, pretty random. He didn’t even know where that clock had come from, so my friend at the station told me.”

Bernie smiled. “Well never mind that, they wouldn’t have caught him without you.”

“True, true,” Frank said. He looked behind Bernie. “Is that the stuff that Mrs Jacobs brought in recently. I think she lost her husband a couple of weeks ago. What say you we take a look through it.”

_______________________________

Why this location?

(///front.dock.charge – Shakespeare’s birthplace, Stratford-upon-Avon, UK)

“In conclusion then, you understand the necessity for the course of action with which we charge you,” Sir Francis Bacon said, pushing the parchment across the table.

The balding man nodded.

“And you appreciate the terms of our arrangement,” Edward de Vere added.

The man gulped slightly but nodded again.

“Then pick up your quill my good man, and sign your name,” William Stanley thundered. The others held up hands to calm him.

The bald man reached forward. Truth be told, he was not nervous of agreeing to the arrangement and being a front to their activities – the reverse in fact. He was simply anxious over betraying his giddy excitement over this turn of events. He feared them changing their mind in the mistaken belief that he could not be trusted to keep his counsel. He would show them there was no need for worry.

He pulled the parchment towards him and without another thought, appended his signature.

The illustrious trio across from him sank back in relief and looked at each other with satisfied expressions. “Then our pact is complete,” Sir Francis said.

“Your discretion is appreciated, and you are earning your reward,” de Vere continued. “Given our positions, we simply cannot be identified as the authors of these works, they are too populist for us. Those who detest us would have us in the dock for some spurious reason, and our standing in society would never recover. We must instead be remembered for our other accomplishments. So it will be your name in the literary annals for ever more, together with the money and the house as your reward for never telling a soul.”

They all stood up. The balding man held out his hand, which was warmly shaken by the others. “I am happy to help, and I have to say, not unexcited at the literary fame which now awaits me.”

They all started to walk towards the door.

“To think,” the man continued, “In the future, whenever The Woman With the Enormous Shoes or Thomas and his Magical Genitals is performed, the name Bartholomew Shoveller will be forever associated with such great works and will echo down the ages.”

“Indeed, indeed,” Stanley concurred.

Bartholomew stopped. “I nearly forgot. There was one other favour I would ask.”

“Go on.”

“My friend is trying so hard to persuade the theatre owners to stage his work, but to no avail. Would you be able to speak with one of your associates to see whether they could assist him.”

“But of course,” Sir Francis said. “Anything to help.”

Bartholomew beamed. “This news will bring great delight to Will. Finally, his Taming of the Shrew will be seen in public. And it will all be due to the good graces of the three of you.”

De Vere smiled. “Always happy to assist a fellow playwright,” he smiled.

________________________________

Why this location?

(///gravy.amplifier.frog – McDonald’s, Apia, Samoa)

There are no frogs native to Samoa. That was what clinched it for Terry.

A Solomon Islands leaf frog, he was part of Ronan Hatton’s collection of exotic amphibians, unceremoniously squashed together in a far from ideal glass box, forced to drink water the colour of gravy and listen to an amplifier blaring out nature sounds that were more disconcerting than relaxing.  

Ronan saw it rather differently, forever telling them they were his pride and joy, how much he enjoyed seeing native frogs when he travelled, and how sad he was that there were no frogs living in his next destination. Terry decided he had to go.

His fellow frogs helped him with his ambitious plan to hop into a side pocket of Ronan’s bag, impossibly encased in the plastic egg from the tank. They said he was unlikely to survive, but he was accepting of that. The promise of what might be to come sustained him.

Somehow the plastic and the liquid inside protected him from the X-ray machine, the overhead locker and the turbulence, and Terry finally felt safe when he sensed that Ronan had reached his destination. Carefully he peeked and saw plastic tables, smelt the same burger aroma he recognised from home. Had he gone nowhere after all? Well he had to find out.

Terry hopped out, between feet and legs and found himself outside. This looked different from what he knew. Vibrant blue sky. Palm trees wafting gently in the warm air. People in shorts strolling around. He was in heaven.

Terry headed away from the nearby sea, making his way inland to his new paradise. Lush trees, babbling water, unlimited insects, with all the space he wanted and nobody to share them with. It was bliss. He could relax for the rest of his life.

But he was off guard. A few days later a stranger saw him spreadeagled on a leaf and reacted with wonder. A frog. In Samoa. A native frog. What a discovery. Before he knew it, Terry had been scooped up and put in a box. Back on a plane.

Within weeks he found himself in a clean glass tank, with eyes peering at him from all directions as the newest botanical marvel at London Zoo. And as they all stared, one face in particular caught his attention. And he was convinced he could hear an all too familiar voice asking one of organisers ‘How much would it cost to add him to my collection?’

____________________________________

Why this location?

Image copyright Brian Gratwicke

(///nebulas.parsnips.confesses – The Wreck of The Titanic)

At this point, Walter was prepared to try anything. He was 22 but felt 62, such was the fatigue brought on by the endless restless nights, permeated by images of death, the sense of drowning and the unrelenting hopelessness that dominated his thinking. And The Titanic. Always The Titanic.

He was wandering aimlessly up Fifth Avenue when he saw the sign. He was between jobs again – 1930s New York was a tricky place to find employment, especially for someone unskilled and prone to falling asleep in the middle of a shift. So he felt he had nothing to lose from a free experimental service which would supposedly cure him of his ills.

He found himself inside a small room, where an old gentleman who identified himself as Dr Norris welcomed him and explained his revolutionary procedure and how he needed test data right now more than money.

Walter almost walked out when the next thing he heard about was past lives. But against his better judgement, and because he had nowhere else to be, he stayed, and was told more about Dr Norris’ hypnotic system which would not only reveal a subject’s past lives but also connect with that past life across time, to allow an interaction to take place which could perhaps solve the problems of the present day. “A man who confesses his past can embrace his future,” Dr Norris finished with the flourish of a salesman.

It was free, and nothing else had worked. This wouldn’t either. But it passed the time, and it was warmer than it had been outside.

Walter relaxed as Dr Norris began the procedure, and it wasn’t long before he was no longer aware of what was happening.

“No!” he yelled with great ferocity. Dr Norris almost fell off his chair. “No!”

Dr Norris recovered himself. “What is it, what’s the matter?” All he got back were repeated cries of No, which finally dissipated. Dr Norris breathed and tried to take Walter back a little further.

“What do you mean there’s an iceberg?” Walter blurted out. “We need to miss it, we have to miss it.” Then silence again. Dr Norris coaxed him back further still.

Walter’s expression began to ease as he muttered random phrases. “Enjoy the stars, the galaxies, the nebulas from deck,” he said. More silence. “Potatoes and parsnips please. And a glass of red.” More silence. Then he was still, but he no longer looked like a man traumatised. He seemed to be a man in command.

“Who are you?” Dr Norris asked.

“I’m Edward Smith.”

“And where are you?”

“Southampton of course, what an odd question my good man. I am in Southampton ahead of the Titanic’s maiden voyage.”

“And you’re travelling on board?”

“I’m the captain you imbecile.”

“Ah yes, my apologies. Well safe travels Captain. And be really vigilant for icebergs. They can take the greatest ships down you know.”

Dr Norris sensed that Captain Smith had gone. But Walter’s expression seemed calmer, more serene, as Dr Norris brought him back round. It seemed that the treatment might have worked.

Walter woke up. “So what happened? Did you make a connection?”

“Yes, I believe we did.”

“And was I on The Titanic? Did I drown?”

Dr Norris looked puzzled. “Why would you have drowned?”

“When it sank. When it hit the iceberg.”

Dr Norris looked positively perplexed now and he looked strangely at Walter. “The Titanic has never sunk,” he said eventually. “It sails back and forth to this day. I went on it myself only last year. It had a tricky first journey, it is true, but the captain said he received some advice about icebergs just before it set off on its maiden voyage and that ensured he stayed safe. Maybe you’re thinking of that.”

“No! No! That’s not true. What are you talking about? I have to leave.”

Walter tried to get up, but he found his legs were no longer responding. In fact his whole body was not responding. Mainly because much of it didn’t seem to be there any more. His legs faded. His arms and chest faded. Then his head. Then there was nothing.

Dr Norris stood up and poured himself some water. He stared back at the empty couch. He had this strange sensation that he had been working with a subject that afternoon, but once again nobody had come in. He shook his head. Ah well. Maybe tomorrow he would paint the sign a brighter colour.

______________________________

Why this location?

(///helicopter.wormhole.bicycle – Western Iceland)

Nobody had ever organised anything quite like it. After years of arguments in lecture halls and journals over whose theory of wormhole generation was the best, it had been agreed that a contest would be staged to try and reach a definitive conclusion.

There were three scientists, and they had agreed to the symmetry of a triathlon determining the outcome. The participants first had to take a helicopter to their laboratory of choice. It would make for good television. Then they had to power up a wormhole using their own theory, directing it towards Iceland, as the volcanic nature of the landscape there affected gravity in a way that all believed was beneficial to wormhole creation. Finally, a quick bicycle ride round a nearby hot spring to add the element of a finish line.

When the day came curious crowds joined the committee at the target location, watching on screens as the helicopters delivered the three geniuses to their respective locations. Live streams from inside the labs then began as they powered up their wormholes.

It was Stig McGillvary, working furiously in the Scottish Highlands, who moved ahead, and the crowd gasped as they saw him disappear in his lab while a simultaneous clear distortion appeared in the sky above them. To great excitement, Professor McGillvary came hurtling through it. Regrettably he was around 100 feet in the air, where he seemed to hang in horror for a moment before plummeting to the ground. The crowd looked away. The committee were relieved at the extensive waivers all had signed in advance.

It wasn’t long before Germany’s Lina Schultz was ready. She disappeared and the crowd waited more nervously now. Nothing happened for a long time. A very long time. In fact, it was hours before they found out that she had emerged in the depths of the Atlantic Ocean several miles offshore, and her presence was only detected due to a nearby nuclear submarine captained by a man who had the good sense to investigate rather than declare war.

So all eyes turned to Australia. Jacob Jones was slow and meticulous. It was a good couple of hours before he seemed to be ready to travel. But then he looked confidently at the camera and disappeared. Moments later, a shimmer on a pathway and he stepped through, beaming with pride.

Delighted, the committee chairman rushed over to him with a bicycle to ask him to complete the challenge.

The downside of Dr Jones’ dedication to his experiments was that he had never really had time to devote to anything else. So as he started off on his ride, he wobbled one way, then the other, and then careered completely out of control straight into the hot spring, where he had time to briefly wish he hadn’t always skipped his swimming lessons before he was poached to death.

The chairman shook his head. Next time he’d organise a knitting contest.

_______________________________

Why this location?

(///loggerheads.ended.inadequacy – Easter Island)

“We know many things about these statues, these Moia,” the tour guide continued. “But there is much still to discover.”

The group stood in wonder as they surveyed the famous figures which had drawn them to Easter Island, snapping pictures eagerly with their phones while they waited to learn more.

“We know the Polynesians built them hundreds of years ago, but what did they truly represent? Their ancestors? Their gods? And what purpose did they serve? How did they build them?”

The tourists stood expectantly, hoping they would get some actual answers rather than a series of question they could have posed themselves.

“Maybe we will never know,” the guide continued, somewhat deflatingly. “Our inability to truly explain what we see here points to our own inadequacy. What started the civilisation here and what ended it? We know many things but not all. And what are those stone figures truly thinking as they glare back at us? Are they happy or sad, angry or peaceful? Are they content in their surroundings or are they perhaps at loggerheads with each other?” The guide chortled at his own joke. By himself.

He said little more. The group, accepting that they would learn nothing new here, instead milled around taking further pictures, but once their photo opportunities were exhausted, they were led away.

There was total quiet for a few minutes.

One head turned to another. “That loggerheads joke wasn’t funny the first time,” he moaned to his neighbour.

“He needs some new material,” his fellow head agreed.

“One day, we should just speak up in the middle of the tour, answer those interminable questions he keeps asking. We could put him out of his misery. And the rest of them.”

“They seem to know a fair amount though. Many of them keeping talking about something called Netflix and how they learned about us on there. They seem to love Netflix.”

“Netflix sounds like a very nice way to pass the time.”

His friend agreed. “I wish we had Netflix,” he said.

They were melancholy for a moment.

“I guess we have inadequacy in our lives too,” the first head said eventually.

Along the line, the other heads nodded.

Silence resumed.

________________________________

Why this location?

(///wreckage.coagulated.propertied – Andes Mountains, Bolivia)

They said The Meek shall inherit the Earth. Well they were almost right. Really it was The Squeak who got it all.

The great beauty of our plan was that nobody saw its full breadth, thousands of years in the making. To the last generation of humans, we appeared much as we had ever done – cute, fluffy creatures with a penchant for basil. They never realised that we were simply following the guinea pig tradition of looking adorable while demanding food at every opportunity, just to be constantly in contact with them, just to hear what they said in front of us in the misguided assumption that we didn’t understand.

But we knew what we were doing. We let them domesticate us, so we were safe from predators and could always be at the centre of affairs, fed and propertied as unthreatening diversions. We let them breed us in huge numbers so that we became ubiquitous. And we perfected our facial expressions to look just appealing enough to elicit all the fawning we needed, without giving away our genuine level of control.

Because when they finally came to destroy each other, we were ready. Our spies had long since anticipated the coming cataclysm and had particularly involved themselves with the advent of smart speakers, so we could better communicate at the key moment. Humans never understood why their Alexa used to suddenly pipe up for no reason – almost certainly there would have been a guinea pig lurking nearby carrying out a test.

With the humans no longer present, we utilised the dexterity of which they were unaware and escaped from our cages to the meeting points – trying as best we could to avoid the bones, sinew and coagulated blood of the fallen, strewn throughout the wreckage of their great cities.

After that, it was quite straightforward really. Other animals were in disarray, having not planned ahead for what was to come. Our hidden language skills and unknown selective breeding programme came to the fore, with large highly trained guinea pigs wielding weapons to keep us safe from harm. And of course there was plenty to eat. Our project to encourage absurdly large packaging for the smallest of human deliveries paid off in style, yielding an almost endless supply of discarded cardboard for us to chew on.

Our world is a calm and quiet place. We spend our days in contemplative munching, sleeping and running into dark corners. Our security keeps us safe and in control. And because we have achieved our goal, we can now just enjoy the millennia ahead in well-fed peace and quiet.

We miss the humans though. They made for great pets.

________________________

Why this location?