Author: Alexander Fawn

There can be absolutely no doubt that thirteen is an unlucky number.

A careful inspection of those details recorded on the day in question can remove any and all hesitation regarding the truth of it. The verifiable facts of the matter are that it was on Friday the thirteenth that the number 13 bus, from the city’s bus depot number 13, was running 13 minutes behind schedule and travelling down 13^th Street at 13 kilometres-an-hour over the limit. It was thirteen minutes past twelve when the seasoned, thirteen-years-on-the-job bus driver simply failed to see the thirteen-year-old boy run out in front of him. From the crowd that gathered following the accident, thirteen calls for an ambulance were made.

Unhappily, the boy died of his injuries thirteen minutes after the accident.

He had paid a publishing company to get his book onto bookshelves.

As a self-published author, he felt it would give him greater control over his ongoing hobby. Being a private sort of person, he wrote under a nom de plume. These notions of maintaining a sense of seclusion didn’t last long. Within a matter of months, he had been approached by an agent that advised him of the interest being shown by a major film studio and their desire to use his book to produce a movie. After a number of meetings and a great deal of official paperwork, a contract was drawn up and production began on the film. It was during this hectic period that the studio had been approached by another company that wanted to use the original work to create a tv series.

This second turn of events caused the already growing fame and fortune of the previously unknown author to escalate tenfold. However, this second option had made things additionally complex. This resulted in him having a number of discussions with his agent, during which both the pros and cons of what was being proposed were considered. During these talks, the agent had explained that there were pitfalls associated with agreeing to this latest proposal. As a result of this, he was advising caution.

He was thinking about all this, when his alarm clock went off, stuffing the whole thing up!

He was touring alone, using a rental car and booking accommodation as he travelled around the country. This was the holiday he had been promising himself for several years. Ever since his tenure at the university was made permanent. Giving never-ending lectures on human biology, could take a back seat. This was a completely different life. The narrow road that passed through the place had very old and interesting buildings on either side. He was creeping along, gazing around, mesmerised by the sights. He became aware of the fact that he was becoming quite emotional about what he was seeing. He couldn’t help feeling that the people here had such a wonderful life.

He spotted a café and parked. Getting out of the car and taking in the surroundings made him realise how much his current life, back in the city, lacked so much of the real beauty that the world had to offer.

Naturally, as he entered, the café owner eyed him as an unexpected stranger, but was very patient taking his order for a coffee; this being done mainly through mime.

The cafe had a veranda at the back that had sweeping views of the surrounding countryside. He sat, waiting for his coffee. He had never been more completely at ease and comfortable with his surroundings. Such a place was worlds away from the gloomy halls of academia.

The owner came through with his drink and smiled as he put it down.

He thanked him and pointed out into the distance. “I must say, this is a lovely, little village, you really couldn’t ask for more, could you?”

“Eh?”

“I mean to say, just look at it out there, the magnificent view down into the valley below.”

The other repeated, “Eh?”

“Ah! So sorry. You don’t speak English.”

The man shrugged. “Sorry, only little English, some words, not much.”

The tourist nodded. “Sorry, I was commenting on life here.”

The man frowned. “What is… life?”

“Ah! A good question. Life for me, as a human on this planet, is made up of a great number of different organisms that, to a greater or lesser degree, have the physical ability to mature, reproduce and reason.”

The man’s expression was hard to read. Before walking away, he pointed to the coffee and said, “Enjoy.”

It was in the normal way of things, that the man found him while walking his dog.

Whereas, it was not uncommon to find the odd vagrant kipping overnight on one of the park benches, this was different. He was not lying on it, but sitting; although slumped forward with his hands in his lap. The man was wearing an expensive looking suit with highly polished shoes that seemed to be new. It was because of this person’s incongruous appearance, along with the fact that the dogwalker happened to be a reasonably decent citizen that he tried to wake him. Placing a hand on his shoulder, he gave a gentle shake. There was no response. Next, he pressed two fingers into the man’s neck and found a pulse. It was at this point that the man mumbled something unintelligible. The man used his mobile to call for an ambulance.

It was some time later, that the mysterious patient was laid out on a bed in an examination room, with a number of medical staff trying to assess his condition. The occasional mumbling, a repetition of two, hard to decipher words, still providing the only clue as to what had caused the man to remain unconscious.

As a result of the singularly strange way that the patient had presented, word had got around. Several medical staff stood around, while the duty doctor held an ear the man’s mouth. After listening for some time, he said, “He seems to be saying, ‘culpus nitus’. Sounds like Latin, but perhaps not.”

With this information, several mobile phones came out and a number of searches began. After a few beats, one of the nurses said, “Yes. I thought so, I’ve confirmed it. Culpus is a family name. I looked it up under Family Histories and Genealogy”. She smiled at the doctor. “Does that help?”

“I’m not sure,” came the reply.

Another nurse said, “I’ll do some research on the department’s main computer,” and left the room.

The intern spoke next. “He’s not saying nitrous, is he? That’s something to do with nitric compounds, I think.”.

This had all gone on for some time, with nitus having everyone stumped. It wasn’t likely to be a European manufacturing company producing gates and doors, or some Spanish mythological matter that invades the brain via the ear.

Finally, the nurse returned. She came into the room with a beaming smile on her face.

“You found something out?” asked the doctor.

“I certainly have! I know what he’s trying to tell us…”

The kid had a new toy and couldn’t get enough of playing with it.

It was a doll with a string that you pull to make it speak. He pulled it, yet again and a squeaky voice said, “Hello, I am Wendy your fun friend.” Although he certainly couldn’t get enough of it, his parents, after well over an hour of hearing, “Hello, I am Wendy your fun friend,” repeated over and over again, they suggested that he take it to his room and play with it their until it was time for bed. He happily went along with the suggestion, repeatedly pulling the string until his door closed. In the silence that followed, the parents smiled at each other with a sense of relief.

In his room, after working the toy continually for another hour, with a further pull, the voice said, “Hello. I’m Wendy, but I don’t want to be your friend anymore. In fact, if you pull that string again, my friend Henry, who is a large, hungry crocodile will come in and eat you.”

After sitting on his bed for a while, in a state of shock, he did what small boys are likely to do. He pulled the string again.

This time, it said, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

Moments later, standing at his door, listening to how quiet it was, his mother had come to tuck him in for the night. When she opened the door, the boy screamed and dived under the bed.

It had been several months since they’d had a good downpour of rain.

The orange dust from the desert winds had coated the dwellings of the small community. It had made the place look drab and dirty. Now, following the torrential rain of the previous night, everything was washed clean and the man sitting by his front window was taking in the view. His attention was fully focused on the house across the street. He had issues; he had views. His entire attitude towards, and his strong views about the world, were uncompromisingly set in stone. This state of affairs resulted from a strict upbringing that involved stringent moral guidance from parents that had been kind, but firm. With these mentors long gone, he was left with his own sense of moral judgement.

Now, looking across at the sparkling clean house on the other side of the street, he was overcome with an irrepressible sadness. He was only too aware of the sins that were within.

It was with a heavy heart that for him it was a simple matter of knowing that no amount of rain could wash it clean!

He just happened to see the mossie land on his arm.

Wow! He thought, how often do you see that? I mean, to see the nasty thing the exact moment it lands. The rotten things usually land, bite you, then leave; all this without you having a clue, until later, until the itching starts! He raises his hand to swat it, then pauses. “Hold on,” he whispers, “should I be doing this? He’s going to stick me anyway, I’m really not that quick, am I?” Then, for some quirky reason, he said, “Can we do this later?” At this point, the mosquito, about to drill into flesh, reared up, whispering, “Later?”

Without pausing to wonder why or how such a conversation could possibly take place, he continued, “Oh! I don’t know, it’s been one hell of a week. Not much of an excuse, is it? Really, when you think about it. It’s all quite natural when you seriously consider it. You need to take a feed, while I don’t want the bite or the itch.”

He shook his head, smiling. Then, seeming to come out of a fog, his mind cleared and he doubted that the insect had actually whispered anything.

“Well, did you?” he asked.

It didn’t reply, just bit him.

He was retired, spending his time writing and posting items on a simple website.

It had been his hobby for a number of years. He received a small overseas pension as a result of working in his native country when he was younger. It wasn’t much, but quite sufficient to maintain his office supplies and the various fees required to keep posting items on his site; enough to keep his hobby going. Having said all this, it made the conversation with the man at the bar of the tennis club particularly interesting. Although, this was probably not the way the other man saw it. He was saying he was a commodities trader with his own international business. He described how he had built the business up to a point where it was worth something in excess of half-a-billion on the stock market.

Describing his own situation, the retiree explained that he was happily cruising along on his own meagre resources.

It was at this point in the conversation that the businessman said that it sounded like the other was just managing to scrape by.

To his surprise, the retiree replied, “Not really. In fact, I would say that I currently have more money than you will ever have!”

The other frowned, saying, “How do you make that out?”

“That’s simple” came the reply, “I have enough.”

She suddenly became aware of the fact that the offices would be closing soon.

Later, the woman behind the counter raised her eyebrows and glared at her. Before this she had gone to the counter and fumbled in her bag, and before this she sat watching the digital display, waiting for her number to come up; this, before finding a seat, after previously taking a ticket with a number as she entered. Prior to this she had entered the foyer and found out what floor the department was on, having to walk three blocks beforehand, to get to the building, and before that, she had spent an age, driving around looking for a parking bay. She had saved a few minutes by taking the shortest route into town, before this she had realised how little time she had. Of course, this was before she left the house in a great hurry.

Prior to all this, her mother had said, “Don’t forget to take the form with you!”

The man who entered Harry’s Mystic Emporium was a collector.

On his way in, he couldn’t help noticing the very odd-looking man behind the counter. He was extremely thin and pale. He was hunched over a large leatherbound book. He didn’t look up. As a potential customer, he began to stroll around. Being a retired professional, he was always on the lookout for any unusual objet d’art that would suit his collection of bizarre objects. Most of what he had found had been the result of spending time in shops in countries around the world. Now, having time to kill in a town he didn’t know, he had stumbled upon the shop, in one of the town’s quiet lanes. It had certainly been the name above the door that brought him in.

He had spent time wandering around, when he came to a halt in front of a large, glass cabinet. It seemed to contain a number of what he guessed were particularly precious items.

He was peering in when he spotted it. It was an oval plaque made of white porcelain with a satanic motif. He immediately fell in love with the thing. Glancing back, he saw that the proprietor was still bent over his book.

“How much for this?” he asked casually, pointing to the cabinet.

Closing his book, the strange looking man came over. He saw what the customer was pointing at. “Ah! For that? For that… well, that would cost you your soul.”

The man chuckled. “The soul, you say. Well, since I don’t believe in such nonsense, that would come rather cheap, I think.” Looking back at it through the glass, he asked, “May I hold it?”

“Of course,” said the proprietor, as he produced a key from his pocket, held at the end of a thin chain. Opening the case, he carefully lifted the plaque out and handed it to his prospective buyer, saying, “Do be careful with it, it is quite delicate.”

“It’s beautiful,” said the man. “I have a wall at home, where this belongs.”

“In that case, I take it you won’t mind signing this purchase agreement?”

“Not at all.” He put it down. “This will look very nice in my study. I know just where I intend to put it.” He took the pen being offered. It was an old-fashioned implement, made of wood, with a nib attached. The shopkeeper then pointed to an inkwell.

The man said, “Really? An old pen-and-ink job, eh? This thing’s got an interesting history, already.” He paused. “We haven’t actually settled on a price yet.”

“But we have! I’ll take no money; only your soul.”

The man grinned and signed, saying, “I had no idea when I came in that I’d be leaving with a such a wonderful bargain.”

The proprietor picked up the contract. He said, “A bargain, yes, but I see it as being more of an unholy covenant. I’ll wrap it for you.” Taking it to the counter, this was done, then placed into a carry bag. Holding it up, he said, “after all, we are both collectors.”

Agreeing with the idea, he left the shop a very satisfied customer.