Crying Out For A Crisis

As the founder and director of the Optimystical Institute of Outer Brynmawr, Doctor Meurig Meredith Selwyn was used to looking on the bright side of things. The power of peace and positive thinking was a message he had striven to spread around the world over the past two decades, even in times of war, plague, famine and light-to-moderate snowfall.  But those days were gone.  Now the sunlit uplands that he once saw from his plush office had disappeared under a covering of greyness and rain.  The Institute's European funding had dried up, Government programmes had turned their back on any sort of positive outlook, and the once-steady stream of income from the Tibetan yak's butter tea was
simply a distant memory.

He had hoped that the publicly-funded gravy train might pull into a siding and hit the buffers gently, allowing him to alight with grace.  Instead it had been a full derailment, with many casualties; chief among them was him. 

It was true that he had to take on some of the local population as a condition of the Institute's Government funding; but he had mainly succeeded in employing them in the lesser roles, where their "life is shit" attitude - which he bitterly resented - would not affect the better motivated, and higher paid, team members.

His office had been a haven over the years, and now he took one last look around it.  His Indonesian carving nestled next to the 'genuine' miner's lamp on the stylish curved desk that had been specially imported from Sweden.  These treasures would be the last to disappear into the packing cases covering the office floor, he'd decided.  But where would he take them next?

He walked over to the window and looked out at the small town with its grey unpleasant streets, sullen inhabitants and resentful weather.  The rain falling from the slate sky hammered against the window, melting the world beyond.  Struggling against a natural feeling of despair, Dr Selwyn stared down at the floor
instead, losing himself in the details of the pattern in the hand-woven chocolate and hot orange carpet.

Positive thought was not possible now.  It had crumbled away like old mortar and the grey, twisting streets seemed to have turned into a maze that he had become lost in, despite his strenuous efforts.  He felt like he was at the end of his day and there was no hope left now.  He raised his eyes and gazed at the dark hillside above the town.  Doctor Selwyn was staring into the abyss and the abyss stared back into him.  It was only when it smiled and waved that he collapsed in a heap on the deep-pile carpet.

Bio: Mark Howard Jones lives in Cardiff, Wales.  He bumps into Fellini at his corner bakery and can usually be found arguing with Dino Buzzati and Arthur Machen at their local, La Fee Verte.  He is a member of the band Stir-Fry Geniuses Of Mars.  His new book Songs From Spider Street is out soon.  Two of these 'facts' are true.