Author: Alexander Fawn

She was an active woman in her late fifties with a happy disposition.

She was articulate and had an open, friendly manner. All things that would, under normal circumstances, attract a partner. For her, this was not the case. From early childhood she had suffered from Parry-Romberg syndrome. The symptom of this being her lopsided facial features. She, in her own way, had learned to live with it. She had long resigned herself to the goal of making the most of her life as a spinster. She had a part-time job in the city that she enjoyed and the volunteer work she did for the local charity shop she found rewarding.

It was her best friend, who also served in the shop that approached her with the idea. She said that a gentleman they had met on their travels was coming for a visit, and because she was so familiar with the city and would know all the right places to take such a person, and because he was blind, would she like to be his guide for the day. She was reticent at first, having never done such a thing, but the idea took hold as she realised it would be a kindness. The man himself was a retired public servant from Pakistan.

When the day came, they travelled in together by train and began to take in the sights. She had worked out an itinerary for the day. It was necessary to hold his hand and provide a running commentary on crossings and steps and other obstacles, which seemed to come to her quite naturally. Beyond this, she described their tour in great detail, giving full descriptions of everything she could see. They were obviously enjoying what was a unique experience for both of them. He was a polite and gracious man, with a soft warm hand, and with the holding of it she could feel something she had not felt before.

It was late afternoon. They were sitting on a park bench, and because city workers were making their way home, they decided to let the rush hour pass before returning to the train station. They spent the time telling each other about themselves. They were so engrossed in this that the time slipped away and she found herself describing the sunset. It was during this description that she realised for the first time that she was still holding his hand! Slightly embarrassed she asked if he minded.

That’s when they kissed.

The man living in apartment 19c knows all about clouds and silver linings.

Before this whole thing started, he had to go to a lot of trouble. Whenever he had visitors he would have to spend time clearing things away. This had to be done slowly and with a great deal of care, it was so easy to miss something. He always regarded it as an ordeal, but a necessary one. All of his special paraphernalia, his expensive accoutrements, they all had to be hidden. His precious book of spells, his summoning bell, his cards, staff, wands and talismans, they all had to be put out of sight. The trappings of satanic worship would not go down well with most folk. He had a small, lockable trunk in the laundry and that served its purpose well.

Then came the pandemic. The great isolator. Social distancing was going on everywhere. Visiting people was discouraged for the benefit of all. So, for a while at least, the rigmarole of going through this arduous activity was greatly reduced. His personal beliefs and his regular practice of devil worship left him with mixed feelings about the race to find a vaccine.

It was obvious that the man in the bed was not long for this world.

The dying man had, in his time, been very wealthy, but had managed to spend well until nearly all of his fortune was gone. His wife had already passed away, leaving only one son, who was now a young man in his early twenties. Several friends and relations were gathered around the bed. The manner house was a large, rambling building in extensive grounds. This in itself would constitute the bulk of any legacy. The son, it had to be said, had never made much of himself, living on a small allowance and doing very little. He was generally regarded as a wastrel.

The doctor in attendance shook his head and the visitors began mumbling, with some of the women sobbing and blowing their noses. The father’s withered hand came up and beckoned to the son. With more hand gestures he had him bend with his ear close to his lips. The old man whispered something… then, he let out one final breath.

As time went on the son never spoke of it. Others never asked about the nature of the old man’s last words, no doubt respecting the privacy of it. However, the son did move on in his life with great speed following the funeral. He bequeathed the property and the bulk of funds that remained to a local hospital, to be used for the rehabilitation of patients. Remaining in his humble bedsit, he began studying and giving his time as a volunteer to several worthy causes. Within a few short years he qualified as an accountant and set up a practice. This was followed by a series of business ventures that, not unlike his father, proved to be highly successful and created considerable personal wealth.

He married late and had two children, a boy and a girl. His business empire became vast, but with an ever growing element of giving to charities. This ongoing philanthropy, again not dissimilar to his father’s lifestyle, left less and less for his immediate family. When his wife died he became even more aware of how he had paralleled the life’s journey travelled by his father. It was for this reason that he began planning ahead, for some future date when he would relinquish his responsibilities and hand all business matters over to his son.

Eventually, he found himself well into old age, lying in bed in his family home. His two children were in attendance, along with friends and relations. The doctor, having visited earlier, had left saying that it was now only a matter of time.

The son, having only ever shown scant interest in the business affairs of his father, but knowing full well the story of how his grandfather had died, waited with some impatience and certainly a degree of excitement, for his father to call him over, which in due course he did.

Following the command to approach, he bent over his father and listened to what was whispered…

It happened as he was making his final orbit before re-entry.

It had been a long space mission. The ship was cruising nicely when he felt a sudden, violent bump. He shook his head, thinking that he may have passed out for a moment. He checked all his instruments and found nothing amiss. After docking at the spaceport, he climbed down from his craft feeling completely exhausted. A spaceport car was seconded to take him home. His driver wasn’t the regular one that transported astronauts out from the port complex, but he was friendly enough. His street was a welcome sight and the front driveway with the flowerbeds on either side were looking as good as ever. He was dropped off and allowed to make his way in on his own. Seven months in space was a long time to be away from his family. He could see movement at the windows and a tiny hand waving.

As he stepped through the front door a woman, not his wife, threw her arms around him. Instead of his young daughter running up to greet him, a small boy came up and grabbed him by the hand. As the strange child led him into the lounge, he wasn’t the least bit surprised to find that his cat was not curled up on his favourite armchair, but a very large dog was stretched out on the rug.

Being, by reputation, the most level-headed astronaut in the space fleet, he decided the best thing to do was to get a really good night’s sleep and sort it all out in the morning.

The actual robbery inside the bank had gone well.

Each part of the plan had been followed meticulously with no hiccups. This was not the case however, with the getaway. The driver of the getaway car turned up late, leaving the three men carrying large bags of cash, standing around waiting for about thirty seconds. Whereas, under most circumstances, this short period would mean very little, that did not apply in this case. Keeping their hoods on, while passers bye stared at them suspiciously was really uncomfortable to say the least. In fact, when he did arrive apologising for the delay and explaining that he had slept in, they were so annoyed that later that day they agreed that they would no longer require his services.

As in all these cases, the saloon car, stolen of course, needed to be dealt with. Within their criminal fraternity they had a person who was expert in such matters. He was contacted with instructions concerning its disposal. He was told that the vehicle was currently hidden by being parked alongside several thousand other cars in a very large open car park. He was given the bay number along with details of how the keys were taped inside the rear bumper. The location of a piece of waste ground outside the city was given where he was required to thoroughly torch the vehicle, with express orders not to open the boot.

He woke knowing that he hadn’t slept well.

Despite it being weekend, normally giving them all a bit of family time away from work and study, that wasn’t going to happen. His wife was away for two days visiting her brother’s family, where his wife had just come out of hospital. To make matters worse, his son was away on a trip to a bird sanctuary that had been organised by the veterinary college where he was studying. The fact was, he just hated being on his own. He’d always been that way. This situation may well be the cause of such a restless night and his current raging headache. He rarely had headaches, but it was bad enough to get him out of bed, where he could have happily stayed for most of the day, and go looking for tablets.

He was raking through a jumble of containers looking for something. He found what he wanted at the back of the shelf. Although it had his son’s name scribbled across the label, it was obviously a pain killer. For headaches, it suggested taking one or two for the first four hours. He took two, and still in his pyjamas, wandered out into the back garden for a dose of fresh air. His head was feeling better, but he was feeling woozy. He made his way to the garden bench and sat waiting for it to wear off.

He was admiring the nearby flower bed when the colours began to shimmer. They grew brighter and brighter, then they seemed to burst into flames! He got up, not knowing what to do, and fell over. He was on his back now, looking up at a sky that was green with purple clouds that seemed to be scudding fast across the sky and occasionally rotating. None of this made any sense of course and he knew he should get back inside and lie down. Crawling on all fours seemed to be the safest way to move. It took an age to crawl in through the back door. He couldn’t confront the stairs, so he managed to make it to the lounge, where he curled up on the settee.

Several hours later, during the late afternoon, he became conscious. Wide awake now, but feeling nauseous, he made his way to the downstairs toilet, where he was violently sick. He went to bed early that night, skipping dinner. It wasn’t until the following day that he fully realised he’d discovered his son’s stash of party drugs.

Nobody knew where the old man really came from.

He had lived alone in a small decaying cottage, out on the edge of the forest, for so long that it was never really questioned just how long he’d been there. He had appeared quietly one or two decades ago and was hardly ever seen. There were rumours of course. Lots of them. Some say he’d been a top heart surgeon in the capital city, with a fine home and a wife, but that was just hearsay. Others said he had a murky past that he didn’t want to share. Many said he was mad. Conjecture had been buzzing for years. The succession of lads on their bicycles that delivered his groceries and the like, out from the village, were often questioned as to his demeanour, but since the old fellow rarely spoke, nothing much was learned in this way. So, the locals had to be content with gossip.

One morning, a lad, like so many others over the years, peddled up to his front gate. He was unstrapping the box from the rear of his bike, when the old man appeared. This time, instead of waiting for the boy to carry his purchases to the front door, he came down the path to take them. He smiled and waved the boy to follow. It was the custom to pay for goods by way of cash in an envelope, along with the next order. This was usually done at the door step. This time he beckoned the youngster into the house and indicated a chair for him to sit on while he prepared money and list. The boy sat waiting patiently for a few minutes, in no way afraid, but curious about this new experience. The man returned, envelope in hand, and sat opposite.

He flapped it a couple of times, smiled, and said, “Tell me your name.”

The boy, taken aback by the question, reddened with sudden embarrassment.

“Your name?” he repeated.

But the boy just lowered his head. When he looked up he patted his mouth.

The old man said, “Yes, I thought so. You are unable to speak, I think.”

The other’s head bobbed.

With a great sigh the man sat back in his chair.

“Have you noticed,” he starts, “that the heartbeat has a double thump? Folks have tried to express these sounds with regular words, like ‘a lub and a dub’ for instance. Not easy.” He waved his hand and went on. “They are themselves most mysterious. It is all about the valves, you see? Such busy little things, thumping away day and night, until… well, no matter. More importantly, is what they hide; these double thumps.” He patted his chest. “To delve further, in there, tight-packed in between these sounds, sitting in that tiny space after the ‘lub’ and before the ‘dub’, there is an exquisite moment.” He leant forward. “Although very small, it eats away at time.” His old head shook slowly from side to side. “Ah! There are such hidden wonders that momentarily fleet within this hidden void,” he murmured, and fell silent for several long minutes.

The boy sat thinking, entranced at some of these ideas. Some of it understood, but not all of it. He decided that it didn’t matter. He was happy to just be there, listening.

The man’s old eyes widened, as though suddenly aware of where he was. He got to his feet and handed the new grocery order to the boy, who also stood. With a smile, he said, “I hope you enjoyed your visit here today?”

The boy nodded eagerly.

With a satisfied smile, he said, “Well then, I look forward to your next visit.”

As the bike rattled back along the narrow lane the boy turned and waved, and the old man, still lost in so many forgotten memories, waved back.

She didn’t like the nasty boy that lived a couple of blocks away.

He went to the same school, but in a different class, fortunately. She often saw him bullying the younger kids at playtime. After school one day she saw him kick a sleeping cat. It made her blood boil. She had often fantasised about being able to teach him a lesson, or better still, arranging for him to have an early departure from this world. Of course these ideas were just that; ideas. However, something occurred that allowed her to put a somewhat childish yet thoroughly satisfying plan into place. Those that attended drama class, and she was one of them, often got together in one of their homes after school, for a games night. Dressing for the part, they would play out a game, rather than just moving tokens around on a board.

Their next night was the game of Cluedo, with each of them dressing up to represent Reverend Green, Professor Plum, Miss Scarlett, and so on. As the group would be one short on the night, someone had invited the rotten kid to join in. Because the parent’s house chosen would be empty that evening, it was decided to use all of the rooms, with labels on the doors to represent those shown on the board game.

On the night, she had contrived to be cast as Mrs. White, the quiet and unassuming house servant, while the hateful boy was given the role of the unsuspecting Colonel Mustard. Mrs. White had further arranged to have the revolver, rope, candlestick, wrench, lead pipe and dagger gathered all together in the overhead cupboard in the kitchen. The next step would be to get Colonel Mustard to enter the kitchen.

Mrs. White would decide what to take from the cupboard when the time came.

He came hither to his chamber, manuscript short finished.

Sat he quietly, for one good final passing of it, to test the merit of such a tale. Marking this encounter and his true love of it. Almost letting pass some doubtful phrases as common sense would make no matter of. But hold! Surely, some strange malady had taken him here. ‘Twas though his mind should whirl obscenely. Hiding well within a scene. Common only to the unlikeness of his finished work, the bard thus with an abject shrewdness moved yet again, through all words contrived there. Looked he twice and thrice upon these most wretched marks. What manner of tongue could further speak thus? What twisted state of mind had there been present at the scratching of this? What perturbed spirit had hung so close for the making of it? There! Couched in scene five, Horatio to Hamlet.

Knowing sure that it ‘twere good to have it spoken, he did read the pernicious evil aloud.

“Oh! Come on, give us a break. You really don’t need to bring back the dead, just to state the bleeding obvious.”

With his pen he did quickly expel it. Minding that it return to damnation from whence it came.

In place of it, and far more properly said, he wrote the immortal line.

‘There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave to tell us this.’

They are all there, jumbled together, waiting for their time.

Each was a product of some incident, some random comment or an interesting news item. Of course, they were only partly formed. There is always something elusive about them, but at the same time any one of them could unexpectedly erupt when least expected. Their ability to come to the surface does not always happen at a time when they can be easily captured. It goes without saying that the advances in modern technology enables them to be caught when they do; ranging from electronic devices and back down the levels of sophistication to the humble pencil and paper.

Sometimes they lay dormant for decades. Where they are, they are safe. None of them are in a hurry to see the light of day. It seems that the few emerge from the many in their own good time.

No doubt that is why ideas for stories can be so elusive.