Author: Alexander Fawn

There are times when protesters get more than just hurt, she knew that.
You would have to say she was something of a dilettante, a bit of a dabbler. She was never very serious about the issues that sparked any given protest, but she really enjoyed the thrill of being part of the pack. She got a high from the noise and fervour of the mob. In short, she found the whole thing a great deal of fun. For her, this protest would be extra exciting. She always found night protests especially exhilarating. It had been dark for some time with only street lamps to show the way forward. There were a least a couple of hundred marchers in the street, all shouting and screaming. Some holding placards, some wielding clubs. It had to be fate, some random sequence of events, that found her at the front of the crowd, behind only one or two of the leaders. Through them, she had a clear view of the row of police officers in their riot gear, spread across the road. The mob was moving forward slowly.

She was looking at the reflections of the street lamps bouncing off the plastic riot shields when she saw the first Molotov cocktail fly over and land at the feet of the police. She hadn’t really expected this. She felt a sudden frisson, a mixture of fear and delight, as she saw two more flaming bottles sail across the night sky. She was looking up at one of these when the bat struck the top of her head. The man in front was swinging it at police. He hardly noticed what had happened. She went down. Within the moving throng, nobody else seemed to notice either, at first. Virtually unconscious, she wasn’t aware of being inadvertently kicked or trampled by those around her. When it was realised that she was on the ground and seemingly out cold, two men carried her through the frenzy to the pavement. One was about to call for an ambulance when he saw that one of the several standby vehicles was coming forward.
By the time the first aid officers had her on a stretcher and were checking her vitals, one of the police officers came forward, making notes and asking if anyone knew her; nobody did. Then, looking closer, he recognised her. She was a regular troublemaker, he thought, she was involved in most of the protests he had attended. Telling the ambulance officers not to let her take off if she came to, he cuffed her wrist to one of the stretcher’s side bars and disappeared back into the noisy fray. They soon had her in the ambulance where they were cleaning up the visible wounds to her arms, hands and forehead, when the first projectile hit the side window. The crowd had come out of nowhere and were pelting the vehicle with anything they could find. The driver shouted to the two attendants in the back to close the doors and hold on tight, as he intended to get the vehicle out of the trouble zone as quickly as possible.
It was then that the first Molotov cocktail hit the windscreen. Unable to see through the blanket of flames, he got out of the cab and ran to the back. He pounded on the doors and shouted that they should get out. The doors swung open and they jumped out. In that moment of panic, the officers couldn’t see a way of getting the patient out quickly, if at all. All three were being hit by flying debris; one of them received a deep cut to the side of his head. Several louts ran at them, pushing them over and kicking them on the ground for no apparent reason. The madness continued as they slammed the doors shut and began rocking the vehicle from side to side. Eventually it tipped onto its side. This was followed by three more bottles striking the crippled vehicle and exploding. At this, with shouts of crazed satisfaction, the group of hooligans ran off.
The ambulance was lying on its side, engulfed in flames, with the sounds of the angry crowds moving away, and the siren of the fire engine growing louder. The medical team, unable to approach the vehicle, because of the heat alone, stood watching helplessly.
Inside, still anchored to the stretcher that was now on top of her, she slowly came around and tried to make out where she was. It was only moments before the petrol tank blew, that with a fuzzy level of consciousness, she tried to remember what the protest was about.

The truth of it was, he was just feeling mischievous.
He was sick of hearing about all the latest advances in the use of DNA. His older, smarter brother knew all about it. He’d done this project at school and learnt all sorts of stuff. He hadn’t stopped talking about it since. That was months ago and he’s still crowing about it. He, on the other hand, was the younger of the two, but a lot craftier. He put in place a plan to fox those forensic clever-clogs people. Let them know that DNA evidence wasn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.

The barber’s shop was easy to get into; the toilet window was never completely shut. Once in, he went straight to the box, where all the clippings were swept into. He didn’t need a lot. Just enough that it wouldn’t be missed. He wanted a dozen different hairs if that was possible. At home he segregated it by colour and thickness, as much as he could tell. From these he took two or three of the longest strands from each little pile and set them aside. The rest, the bulk of it, he flushed down the toilet. At this point, he was ready. In each case, a single strand of hair was all it would take.
He began making a list of addresses and places where the hairs could be placed. They would be found in locations the original owners had never been!
He was working on this list when he was suddenly struck by a thought.
Once they were all in position… what would he do next?

He sat waiting; in that brief moment, forming a web, unseen, unnoticed, and invisible.
It began with him. He was looking at a schoolboy standing nearby on the street corner. In turn, the boy was gazing at a policeman standing on the diagonally opposite corner. The policeman was focused on a teenager, who stood smoking a cigarette across the street. The teenager was eyeing a girl standing further along the footpath, who seemed to be waiting for a lift. The girl was watching an elderly man who was standing at the bus stop. The elderly man was looking at the driver sitting in his car.

The man noticed that the boy’s uniform was the same as his son’s. He wondered whether the two boys knew each other. The boy was looking at the policeman’s uniform. He knew a policeman who lived in his street and had often wondered if that was what he wanted to be. The policeman wondered whether it was possible that the teenager he was looking at was the same person he had recently seen on a poster, registered as a missing person. The teenager was eyeing the girl. He thought she was pretty and wondered whether or not he recognised her as one of his sister’s friends. The girl was concentrating on the elderly man at the bus stop, who reminded her of her own late grandfather. The old man was squinting at the man waiting in his car at the traffic light. He was some distance away and his eyesight wasn’t that good, but he was sure he recognised his son’s friend who manages a local gymnasium.
The man in the car saw the light had changed to green, and moved off.
The web was broken, with none of them knowing that it was ever there…

Things falling into place,
Beyond words from a poets pen.
Intoxicating visions,
Seen, now and then.
–
Things almost looked for,
Or clearly seeking.
Newfound knowledge,
With interest peaking.
–
A pleasing structure,
Perfumed flowers,
Delicate beauty,
Twilight hours.
–
Lapping waves, a flock of birds,
Grassy slopes and wishing wells.
Feathers shining, stars through black,
Rounded clouds and wet seashells.

Cobweb dewdrops, clearing fog,
Dreamy music, children playing.
A gurgling brook, snow falling,
Forest echoes, flowers swaying.
–
Seeking, finding, seeing, showing.
Pursuing, looking, viewing, knowing.

He suggested that she do as little as possible.
He made breakfast for them both and reluctantly left for work. The weather was good and she could lay out on the sunbed and admire the garden. The garden that she had created over the years. One that she could no longer tend. On the train he thought about her. He knew that for the next few weeks she’d never be out of his thoughts. He’d suggested an overseas trip or a cruise, but she hadn’t wanted that. Should he stop work? Her answer was no. Today she would bask in the sun and take pleasure in her surroundings. She had always loved her garden.

Wasn’t it Robert Louis Stevenson who wrote that you were closer to God’s heart in a garden?
If the diagnosis was correct, she was only a month or so away from being even closer.

The annual holiday loomed for the retired couple.
They were quite used to spending up big on these occasions. It was often a case of living on a cruise ship for a few weeks, visiting exotic places around the world. This year he wanted it to be different. It was just a fly there and fly back kind of thing. He knew she wouldn’t like it. There again, last year he let her have her way with ten days discovering the wonders of the Amazon. It was his turn. The more he thought about it the more excited he got. It was a family run café, just half a mile off the main street in a small village on the edge of a forest, in the middle of the downs, just a dozen miles inland from the south coast. It would bring back memories; such wonderful memories. He had done his research on the internet. It was still there!
He decided it was time to discuss it.
He opened the conversation gently. “I’ve had an idea for our upcoming holiday, my love.”
“Oh! Really? What did you have in mind?”
“Upper Pottingworth on the Wold.”
“Upper what?”
“Pottingworth. It’s on the Wold. A lovely spot; in old Blighty.”
She frowned. “What’s a wold?”
“Ah! Well, it’s a mainly elevated piece of open country with lots of green rolling hills. You’d love it!”
“Oh! Really? What’s there?”
“Um. We could certainly visit the Wold Farmhouse Café while we’re there.”

“You know it then?”
“Yes, from my student days.”
“So, you want to fly all that way to visit this café, is that right?”
He nodded his head vigorously. “Yes. Absolutely!”
“Well, dear, it seems an awfully long way to go just to visit a café.”
“Yes, but they do a simply fantastic cottage pie with whipped potatoes and onion gravy.” He closed his eyes. “Honestly, the gravy, it’s something to die for.”
He opened his eyes. She was still frowning.
Smiling, he said, “I’ll leave it with you.”

The latest edition of the dictionary was well overdue.

This was the case owing to the fact that the word ‘indecision’ had not been properly defined. It was generally agreed that the current definition of ‘not having made up one’s mind’ left a lot to be desired. After a great deal of deliberation, two alternate definitions were created. Despite the fact that there was general agreement that both were better than the original, there was no agreement on which of the two they should use.
At this point indecision gave way to ambivalence.
When they realised that was, in fact, what had happened, someone suggested that they look up ambivalence…

He was tossing in the bed and making groaning noises.
With a jolt, he opened his eyes. He found her sitting on the edge of the bed. “You were making funny noises,” she said, patting his arm. “The dream,” he said. “That same dream, where you go shopping and you don’t come back.” He grinned with embarrassment. “Hell baby, it was awful. The police were informed and a massive manhunt went on for days. There were so many volunteers. But… but you were never found, you just… vanished!” He began sobbing.

“It’s OK honey,” she said, “just a bad dream.”
He sighed. “I’ve had so much trouble sleeping lately, mainly because of being woken by dreams and not being able to get back to sleep again.”
She stroked his hair.
He went on, “Sometimes I wake up from a dream, but somehow the dream just keeps going. Has that ever happened to you?”
“No,” she says, “that sounds horrible.” She leant over and kissed him on the cheek. “Sounds horrible,” she repeated, squeezing his hand again. “But, it’s OK. I’m here now,” she said.
He nodded slowly and smiled at her, but he couldn’t help wondering… for how long?

Normally, the teacher didn’t discuss his coping methods with anybody.
However, his fellow teacher and friendly colleague had shown such genuine interest that he agreed to discuss it with her, after school hours. He had emphasised that for reasons that would become clear, he needed to be assured by her that she would treat everything in the strictest confidence. She had agreed. At the appointed time she appeared at the door of his classroom, keen to get the inside story on how to handle the youngsters who exhibited the very worst kinds of behaviour. She had never been in his classroom and stood looking around before knocking. It looked like any other room, except for a large wooden box that sat in the far corner. She tapped and he looked up from notes he was making. He smiled, welcoming her in.
He got up and immediately took her to the box. He was obviously proud of it and enthusiastically told her he called it his ‘naughty box’. “It’s a simple enough procedure,” he began. “If a child pays up badly, they have to spend time in here.” He walked to the side and pointed. She followed and saw the door. “This is where they go in,” he said, opening the door. He pointed. She stooped a little and peered inside. She could see a small chair with a low table in front of it. The table had a large, red button set in the middle. He moved forward and closed the door. He stood for a moment caressing the side of it.
She stood back to look it over. “I take it you built this yourself?’
“Yes,” he said, nodding, obviously pleased with himself.
“And? You were going to explain how it works,” she said, with growing curiosity.
“Oh! Of course, yes. Well, the principle is simple enough. Basically,” he explained, “this method works best with troublemakers who simply never do what they are told. With them, it works every time. If a child misbehaves during the lesson they are told that they have to sit for ten minutes in the ‘naughty box’. They are expressly forbidden to touch the button and in no circumstances are they allowed to press it.”

“OK,” she said softly, encouraging him to go on.
“They are told that if they press the button they will disappear, for ever.”
The woman takes on a quizzical look and asks, “Does it work?”
“Absolutely, they are never seen again.”
“Never seen again?” she repeats.
“Never,” he assures her. “The bad ones, I mean the really bad ones, you can rely on them every time.” With a broad smile, he said, “They never come back.”

She sat, looking down at the boxes and the shoes beside them.
Two pairs, they were both nice, one red and the other blue. The saleslady crouched down next to her. She had been very patient.
“The blue would go with an outfit I’ve got.”
“Red is certainly a colour very much in fashion at the moment.”
“Yes, I suppose so, but are they too…loud?”
“Not really. A lot of people seem to be wearing them!”
“Oh! I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.”
“No time like the present…”
“I just don’t want to buy something and regret it afterwards.”
“OK. That’s understandable. Have you considered that instead of red and blue, you mix them as a compromise? To make purple, maybe?”
“Purple! Are you kidding! Yuk! Haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve been saying?”
She stood up abruptly and left the shop, leaving the assistant confused.
Back out on the street, she decided that thinking things over in her head didn’t always resolve matters!