by Mr. Harlequin
Sequestered, alone, as always, the boy-man played with his building blocks. Since childhood, teased, bullied, tormented, blocks had been his friends, building when his peers were focussed on destruction, company when others wished his solitude and really, nothing had changed, only the blocks becoming smaller, more complex, likewise his creations. He had not invented the blocks, that great feat of creativity the honour of one far greater than he; so great he doubted his existence and yet, the blocks remained as proof, constancy in a chimera world. He aged, matured, studied, graduated, outwardly attaining the veneer of conformity, society unaware that when he retired to his keep, his imagination, his skill was focussed on combining the building blocks, seeking by one great work of construction to honour the creator of the blocks, one great example to show them all. Finally, it was ready, his edifice perfect in every facet, a tiny yet intricate annunciation of his pain; this would finally silence their sneers, would show them all. With barely a flourish, he released his blocks, the base pairs perfectly aligned, irresistible, a virus, to show them all.
Mr. Harlequin, author of The Visit, lives in England, where he is a banker, bank-rolling an ex, two teenage daughters, a local authority and a burgeoning population of scroungers. He spends his days telling people who are not interested how technology can change their business, and his evenings trying to get his washing machine to work. (He recognizes the irony.) He writes a monthly column in a trade journal, into which he tries to inject some humor, as a way of disguising his lack of actual knowledge. (Oh, and he also has a blog.)