Author: Alexander Fawn

His dad and the man who used to fix his car were really good buddies.

They would often sit around drinking, chatting and joking in the evenings. He would hear them on those evenings when it was early enough for him to be still up. So, when he heard about the crash, and how his dad’s friend had been killed, he knew it would be a sad time for all of them; even him, although he was only young.

They all knew him, not just his dad. Most times the man would call round straight away if his dad needed something fixed. He used to come direct from his work in town. He was a mechanic in a garage; all he ever did was work on cars.

He and dad would sometimes play golf together. Sometimes they would all go down to the course together. His dad and his friend would play a round of golf. Of course, he was much too young to play. He would toddle around behind them, while his mum sat in the clubhouse chatting with the ladies. Everybody always had a good time. Despite his age, the boy knew his dad was really going to miss his friend.

That’s why he couldn’t understand it when he heard his mum saying she would top up the beer in the fridge for his visitor tomorrow evening. Who could they be talking about? Maybe his dad had found a new friend. In his way, he thought that would be good. When the time came, the front door bell sounded and the man was welcomed in.

It was the man from the garage, the man who played golf with his dad, the man who had recently died. The shock to his young mind was stunning. He could hear his dad and his friend talking and laughing. He sat in the next room with his mother; she was reading a book while he silently played with his blocks. He remained very quiet and withdrawn throughout the evening.

When the man left, the parents could see that the boy was confused.

“He doesn’t understand,” she said.

His father said, “Should we explain?”

She let out a long breath, and said, “I’ll do it.”

She and the boy sat on the sofa together. “I’m sure you know that daddy’s friend died in a car accident,” she began.

The boy nodded slowly.

She continued. “He was in his car on his way to the golf club when it happened.”

The young boy sat waiting for more.

His mother put her arm around him and stroked his hair.

“We were all in it, my dear.”

He was reading the newspaper when his friend joined him in the bar.

He folded his paper and said, “Just reading about my missing neighbour. I must say I’m worried.”

“Yes. That’s right, you know him, don’t you?”

“I do, or I did; not very well, but a nice guy. Somehow the press have got hold of his theories.” He pointed to the paper. “Of course, now people will think he’s cuckoo.”

“Do you?”

The man frowned. “Not sure. He had some pretty wild ideas about his favourite topic, but I always found him a straight sort of guy.”

“What topic was that?”

“Oh! He was always going on about the Hollinwell incident.” He looked down at the paper. “It’s all laid out in this latest edition.”

“Hollinwell?”

“Yes, this was in England. I think it was some time back in the eighties, they had this big gathering of kids’ marching bands. It was held in a showground at this place called Hollinwell. Never heard of it?”

The other shrugged. “Rings a bit of a bell, but go on.”

The man was lost in thought or a moment. “Oh! Yes. It was the real thing alright. Fascinating business really.”

The other said, “Do go on.”

“Well, according to the reports published at the time, right out of the blue kids just started dropping like flies. They were fainting, vomiting and generally all getting really sick at the same time, around three hundred of them. This was the case with some adults and young babies as well. Over two hundred of them were carted off to four local hospitals. Of course, the newspapers just loved it!”

The other smiled. “I bet! Did they ever find out what caused it?”

“No. The local authorities looked into it, of course. I think it was pretty thorough. They looked at food poisoning, water contamination, radio waves; the lot. Never figured it out though. There was later speculation that local fields being sprayed with a chemical may have been responsible, but who knows.”

“Fascinating,” said the other, obviously enjoying the story.

“Anyway, this guy is a reporter, working for a London paper. He was obsessed with the whole thing. He spent literally decades researching it, looking for an answer. Anyway, like I said, he was obsessed. Whatever you or I might think, he was convinced that the whole thing was an alien encounter.

He reckoned that similar things had happened before, but with fewer people. He said something went wrong with whatever the visitors were trying to do.”

The other was pulling a face.

“I know, but I have to say, this was a very level headed guy. Respected in his profession, and he was good to the local school.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, as you know, he’s a neighbour and he often does a bit for our local school’s newsletter. Like, attending a meeting, then writing a piece for the next issue. I was due to meet up with him last week, but he didn’t show. I’ve since found out he went missing several weeks ago. His brother-in-law was apparently the last person to see him. They happened to be coming home on the same bus and got chatting. His brother-in-law told the police he’d been told that he was on the cusp of getting an answer to the mystery, but it meant that he would have to go away for a while.”

“So, what exactly do you think has happened to him?”

“I think he’s been taken. Well, not taken exactly, more like he found a way to make some kind of request, and went!”

“So, you obviously fear for the man’s safety.”

With a shake of his head, he replied, “Well, no, it’s not that.”

“What then?”

“I’m concerned that he won’t be back in time for the next issue!”

There I was, just tucked away in her jeans pocket.

The park was warm and sunny that day, I could feel it through the fabric as she lay there. That day my owner was doing stocktake at the bookstore. She love’s working there, among books. She loves books. Ever since starting at the shop she hasn’t bought a single book. The boss said from day one she could help herself, but only one at a time. She was lying there reading with me nestled with her, a weeny red cross on a tiny shield.

The fact is, her late uncle gave me to her all those years ago. “Blood’s important,” he had said. As a young girl she just stared at him wide-eyed. “No matter,” he had chortled, “it’ll bring you luck.” She often remembers how he leant very close to her ear and whispered in his old, raspy voice. “Keep it safe.” Since then I go with her everywhere.

Her midday break was nearly up. She carefully slipped in her bookmark. She would have a comfortable three-minute walk from the park to the high street. She rolled over lazily to get up, still lost in the story, still wondering how it would all work out.

That’s when it happened. That’s when I fell. I fell and just rested there in the grass, separated, on my own, lost.

The young man who passed at that very moment didn’t seem to see me at first. I glinted as much as I could! Then he spotted me.

He picked me up and looked around. He knows what it is. He gives blood. I am held, bouncing in his hand as he runs to catch up.

“Hello! Hello!” he calls.

She turns to see what he is holding out. She pats her pocket.

“Oh! Thank you so much. Where…?”

He looks back. “Just there. You must have…”

“Dropped it, yes, I must have.” She looked embarrassed “That’s kind of you.”

He went to move off, but turned back saying, “You give blood then?”

“Um, actually no.”

“No?”

“No.”

“You should.”

“Should I?”

“Sorry, I mean… not sure what I mean. I… I didn’t mean to be rude.”

She smiled. “That’s OK. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should think about it.”

He hurriedly pulled out his mobile phone saying, “My next appointment at the local centre is…” he tapped for a while, then held the screen so she could read the time and date. “I’m only saying, if you wanted, we could meet there, I’m sure they could fit you in and, well, we could go for a coffee afterwards.”

She raised her eyebrows, laughed and parroted him, “… and we could go for a coffee afterwards.”

His face reddened and he turned away, saying, “No, of course I’m sorry. Look after that badge anyway. Blood’s important. Well, you know what I mean. It was nice meeting you. Bye.” With that he went to hurry off.

“Wait!” she shouted, much louder than she had intended.

He turned.

She brought out her phone and held it up, “Can you give me those details again?”

She tapped them in.

As she watched him walk away, she held me very tight in her hand. I could feel the dampness and the pounding pulse. It was very fast.

The old man said I would bring her luck.

Scattered notions in the head,

Like an unseen fault in a bridge’s span,

Or a casual thing that someone said,

Or the worldwide nature of misguided man.

–

See revellers in a moonlight dance.

A runner slowly losing pace,

Or drug-takers staggering in a trance,

How the privileged maintain their lofty place.

–

Criminals meet and quietly plan.

Thinkers probe the thoughts of the masses.

An infant undergoes a scan.

A boy detecting leaking gases.

–

In a quiet room, there’s a distant shout,

While beneath the stars, bonfires rage.

Jitters when the power goes out.

The scent of books as they slowly age.

–

Bird song in the early morning.

Such long hours chatting on the phone.

Sirens sounding out a warning.

A soldier crouching all alone.

–

A much loved tree being felled.

A patient wondering what comes next.

A tearful child being held.

A desperate teacher looking vexed.

–

Bullies hurting out of spite,

Or people seeking auto parts.

Distant worlds only seen at night,

Or lovers nursing broken hearts.

Placing bets on backstreet fighters.

Children running on a beach.

Blank pages staring back at writers.

Using hands instead of speech.

–

Those just tiring of society,

Or watching birds in treetop nests,

Or teasing men for their sobriety.

Breaking open treasure chests.

–

The anguish of an erring priest.

Fallen people making headlines.

Conquering heroes at a feast,

Or safety flouting, keeping deadlines.

–

Scattered notions swim around,

Each one playing some sentient part.

A surfeit of ideas are found.

In truth, an agonising way to start.

–

Wherein these idle thoughts abound,

Within each one, so little known.

No external source will sound.

It’s in the writer’s head alone.

It may well have happened to anybody, but it happened to him.

He simply didn’t see it coming. All that took place on that particular morning probably transpired in a matter of moments.

He was crossing the town square at the time. There were not many people around, although it was late morning it was still too early for office workers to be taking their lunch breaks.

Out of nowhere, a stranger just walked up to him, pulled his arm out by the sleeve of his jacket, pushed something into his hand and walked on past him. It was all over in less than five seconds. That wasn’t the strangest part. No. When he looked around the man was gone. He was right there, moments ago. Now, looking around in all directions he was nowhere to be seen. He had been a very ordinary looking man in a suit, like hundreds of others that would soon emerge from the surrounding buildings.

He looked down at what he’d been given. It was a small metallic cube, not much bigger than a sugar cube. It was nicely rounded along its edges and had no visible markings of any kind. It looked a lot like a die that you might throw when playing a board game, but without the spots. In itself, it was a beautiful object.

It was on the flat palm of his hand and he was flipping it over with his fingertips, checking that none of the sides were marked in any way, when he felt a shudder. Actually, it was more like a tremor; he felt it through the soles of his shoes. The air around him seemed to vibrate and a hand appeared, gently plucking the cube from his palm.

Looking up, again he was face to face with the stranger, who smiled as he put the cube in his pocket. He nodded saying, “Thank you for holding this for me.”

The man, despite the fact that his head was swimming, managed to say “Look. What’s going on here?”

The stranger’s head shook.

“Just give me a clue,” he went on, “You owe me that much.”

A slight nod, and the stranger said, “That’s the problem you see. If I tried to explain what is actually going on here you would not comprehend anything I told you. I’m sorry, but you’ll just have to accept the fact that holding on to this has meant a great deal to me and I’m very grateful.” He paused. “I would like to give you something as a token of my goodwill, but that would leave traces. We are not permitted to leave traces.”

“We?”

The stranger pointed over the man’s shoulder saying, “them.”

He turned to see.

When he looked back, confused… the stranger was gone.

He met her at the wake.

The small church in the village that the dead man was born in was bursting at the seams. He wasn’t sure whether that many people had actually known him, or was it just because the elderly man in the coffin had died extremely wealthy. He had certainly made good, coming from this out-of-the-way corner of the world and going on to build a food empire. Although his factories produce an enormous range of confectionary products, it all started with jelly. He really put himself on the map by coming up with an amazing variety of both jelly flavours and colours. These were such a huge success that it enabled him to go on and invest in other products. However, the original range of sweet deserts remained a top seller.

Several rival manufacturers tried to replicate the uniqueness of the taste that all these delicious jellies had in common. However, the formula for these remained a closely guarded secret. There were several challenges and court cases over the years aimed at releasing the recipe, but these all failed. Now, only a handful of employees were in possession of the knowledge. While the old man was alive none would dare to let such information leak for fear of losing their highly remunerated positions in the company, but now… There were already rumours circulating that someone in head office was talking to a rival company. Things were about to change.

It happened after the funeral.

He met her in the local pub that took those who stayed for the wake, most of whom had to stand around outside or sit at one of the few tables if they were lucky. Despite the number of people gathered there, he spotted her coming in, looking for somewhere to sit with her drink. He made a space and waved her over.

She approached with a frown. “Have we met?”

He smiled and said, “Yes, we have. Take a seat and I’ll remind you.”

As she settled down she said, “Yes, it’s coming back now. Faulkner’s was it?”

“No. Bradley and Company. I was the Finance Manager there and you came in to do some temping for us.”

“Of course! That’s right. I seem to remember you were particularly nice to me, with the ledgers I was working on, I mean. That was a long time ago.”

He nodded, saying, “It was; and I’m aware of your rise to power since then.”

“Well, that was true until a couple of weeks ago.” She dropped her voice. “They let me go.” She shrugged. “Politics. You don’t want to know.” She finished her drink.

He said, “I’m sorry, but you still came to pay your respects.”

“Oh! The old man was OK. Really nice old guy, actually. No, it was others on the management team that caused the problems. Some of them couldn’t wait for the old man to pop off. I know for a fact that one of them is having talks with a competitor.”

He said, “So, recipes may pass on after all these years, but still remain a secret, of course.”

She nodded, “Yes, but you know, it’s so simple. It’s amazing that nobody ever figured it out or even just discovered it accidentally.”

He sat, quietly waiting.

She smirked. “You know, if I told you right now, you wouldn’t be able to do anything with it. Not unless you blabbed, then you’d only get yourself into a heap of trouble.”

He leaned forward, whispering, “I’ll take the chance, if you will.”

“Well, you wouldn’t credit it, but…”

At this point the ‘time please’ bell rang loudly and the manager called out, “Everybody; there’s no need to panic, but we have a fire in the kitchen and it would be best if everyone move outside.”

A swirl of smoke came up behind him as staff ran out from the kitchen shaking their heads. The building was cleared quickly. Inside, the flames had started to run across the ceilings. By the time the fire brigade arrived the whole building was ablaze.

In the following week he went to a lot of trouble, tracking the woman down. He would have to admit it was mainly curiosity that drove him on.

When he finally got word, he was told that a couple of days after the funeral and the fire she was paddling and was fatally stung… by a box jellyfish!

It was school holidays and the fair was in town.

She had been waiting for this. This was when it would all come together, just the way she knew it would. He had asked her if he could take her. That’s when it all started to fall into place. From that very moment, she saw her future coming together. All it needed was to get mystic confirmation, and she knew where to find it. She would know the tent’s colours. She would soon find it.

As they entered the noisy throng of brightly coloured flashing lights, people screaming and laughing, the smell of popcorn and candyfloss, she felt so happy feeling their arms entwined, having his body tight by her side. They moved through the crowd, taking in the sights. Then, she saw it. The tent was on the edge of the fairground, waiting. It just sat there, waiting.

“Oh! Look!” she said, tugging at his arm. “That must be the gypsy fortune-teller. I’d love to find out about my future, wouldn’t you?”

He smiled kindly. “Well, to be honest, not really. There’s a shooting gallery back there. I wouldn’t mind a go on that.”

“OK,” she said. “You do that and we’ll meet back there, at the tent.”

She stood for moment, watching him work his way through the fair-goers, heading for the gallery. She felt the excitement build as she made her way to the tent.

Inside, the old gypsy sat reading a magazine. A large crystal ball sat on a small table. She looked up as the girl entered, slipped the magazine to the floor and said, “Welcome, child. Sit, why don’t you?”

The girl sat. A little nervously, she said, “I want to know. I want to know about my future.”

The old gypsy smiled. “Well, my dear, you’ve come to the right place.”

“Wonderful,” said the girl, handing over the money and sitting back into her chair, wriggling to make herself comfortable.

“Let me see now.” The fortune-teller stared intently into the ball.

“Ah! Yes… I see a long journey coming for you my dear. It will be a hot place that you are going to. You will need to keep in mind…” she paused and looked up.

The girl sat frowning.

“No. Perhaps not,” she went on, “there will be a very important man coming into your life in the near future with an exciting job offer. He will see great potential in you and will see that your career…”

The girl was still frowning and shaking her head slowly.

“Oh!” she said peering back into the crystal. “It’s becoming clearer now. Yes. It will be such a surprise. You will win a great deal of money when you buy the ticket. It will change your life, give you the sort of independence that you’ve always wanted.”

The gypsy saw movement behind the girl.

“Oh! Dearie me! No.”

She looked up again and caught sight of the young man peeking through the flap.

“Ah! I see it now. A young boy with ginger hair going down on one knee, proposing.”

The girl brightened and nodded.

“I see the wedding day with family and friends. Such a happy time. And the babies, lots of lovely little babies!” She looked up from the ball. “You are such a lucky girl you know.”

She smiled. “Yes, I know. Thank you so much.”

Outside, her future husband, holding a small teddy bear, was waiting patiently. “You were in there a long time,” he said. “Is everything OK?”

She put her arm through his, hugging the prize he won for her, as they wandered back into the crowd.

“It’s fine,” she said, “just fine.”

She had always mused a lot.

She would tell her friends that it was one of her strong points. “Arty types are always doing it,” she would say, “it comes with the territory.” She was a young woman, fresh out of University and her art degree went with her everywhere. On this particular day she was browsing through an art gallery in a town she had not visited before. There was a great variety of works on display, from Renaissance to Pop Art. She had stopped in the town to take a break from a long drive, but had spotted the shop in the high street and couldn’t resist going in.

As she walked around it became evident that the shop was quite large. She spent the better part of an hour strolling around, analysing the contents of each frame individually, when a fresh-faced, middle-aged sales lady approached asking, “Can I help you there?”

“No,” she replied, “just looking, but thank you.”

The sales woman moved off, saying, “Not a problem. Just let me know if there’s anything.”

A few more minutes and she was at the back of the shop, with nothing left to look at.

It was there that she noticed a further room that was stacked with more art work, mostly laid flat on deep shelves, with some several framed pictures leaning up against a wall.

She got the sales person’s attention.

“Excuse me, would you mind if I take a look in here?”

The other paused, then said, “Oh! No. That’s fine. Naturally, we don’t have the room to hang them all. If you want to look at anything on the racks, let me know and I’ll take them down for you. Otherwise, there’s a good selection there along the wall.”

“Thank you.”

As she turned to go in, the other added, “I would ask you to be careful, some of them are quite valuable.”

“I will, I promise,” she said and entered the room. 

 She stood for a while, flipping through them one by one, until she came to a Renoir print. This French impressionist happened to be one of her favourite artists. As a painter, he liked to capture some of the leisure activities of Parisian life. The picture here was no exception, being his ‘Dance in the City’; an elegant portrayal of a couple, wrapped in each other’s arms, dancing.

She carefully lifted it out, noticing a label glued to the back, as she did. It read ‘Todd for Claire’. She thought that was sweet. Presumably, Todd was the one giving the picture to his sweetheart. Was he anything like the man in the picture? Was Claire anything like the woman? She stood staring at the picture for at least another half an hour. She became moved and quite emotional, lost in the way this simple print may have touched the personal lives of two people, who may well have been deeply in love at one time, before it ended up in this out of the way storeroom.

The saleswoman was surprised to find her still there when she looked in. “Anything of interest?” she enquired, as she entered.

The woman, almost speechless, turned the picture.

“Oh! That!” The woman looked embarrassed. “Oh! We should have removed that, I’m so sorry.”

“Not at all,” replied the other.” I think it’s awfully touching, don’t you?”

The woman’s face reddened even more. “Well, to be quite honest, Todd, or Mister Roberts…”

“Oh! You actually know who gave this painting?”

The other stood, obviously very uncomfortable for some reason. Finally, she said, “Yes. Well, actually no; not gave but sold.”

“Sold?”

“Yes, that would be Mister Roberts from the Salvation Army. They get some rather fine pieces from time to time. Items that people simply don’t want any more.”

The visitor looked visibly shaken and certainly disappointed, she asked, “And Claire?”

“That’s me. You may not have noticed my name over the shop as you came in.”

Out in the street she stiffened visibly before making her way back to her car.

She preferred her version.

There’s a place inside were poems are born.

It’s just like a room in the head.

It’s full of so many words

And things that people have said,

Or a line of graffiti seen somewhere,

Or a thing that’s simply been read.

–

Some words may dishearten,

Others enthuse.

Try not to clutter,

Simply pick and choose.

Favourites are fine,

But don’t overuse.

There’s no fondness for words that rush at you,

Or wake at an early hour,

Or those that are not in common use,

Or leave a taste that is sour,

Or those that a reader has to look up,

Or the archaic that no longer have power.

–

There’s no liking for words that are hung with icicles,

Or those that burst into flame,

Or those full of pretentiousness,

Either through glamour or fame,

Or words that promise too much,

Or dictate the name of the game.

–

The best loved words

Glide in on a cloud.

They hoot like an owl

But never too loud.

They smell of coffee;

All with humour allowed.

–

Inside this room, is where precious things live.

Outside… can there be anything above

Or more important that life can give

Than the value of poetry, music and love?

She couldn’t remember exactly when it had started.

Of course it had been going on for a number of years, she knew that. But to actually put a date on it or to remember the occasion of the first delivery; no, that she couldn’t do. It was insidious, creeping into her life like a cancer. Every day, the filthy old guy from across the street brings her mail, taken from her mail box and bringing it to her front door. There would be a tapping on the door, he never rang the doorbell. No matter what it was; letters, local paper, flyers, notices, brochures, there was always something, and he would bring it.

At first she tried telling him that despite getting on in years, it was no problem for her to walk the short distance down the front path to collect it herself. It was as though she had never said anything.

The worst part of it was his dirty clothes and the smell he always gave off. The fact that his face was so wrinkled and blotchy didn’t help. In short, he was quite ugly. Although she had no way of knowing how old he was, he must be well into his eighties or nineties. All in all, she would rather he didn’t do it. She had, over the years, thought of a number of ways she could put a stop to it, but none of them seemed to be right after thinking it through. At one point she came to the conclusion that the matter would only be fully resolved if he simply dropped dead.

However, this notion wasn’t enough. She began to imagine things; scenarios. She would play them out in her mind. As time went by, she found that these fantasies actually brought her some small measure of solace.

He might simply clutch at his chest one morning, before the postman made his rounds, have a heart attack and die quite peacefully, right there on his kitchen floor. As he’s not that steady on his feet, he could always fall and break his hip or his leg badly. So bad that he was not able to move; just lay there and die. He might have some heavy object come crashing down on his head and just lay there helpless, slowly bleeding to death. Of course, there was always the chance that he could just choke on a piece of food and die. It was also possible that some faulty wiring or a frayed appliance cord could see him electrocuted.

Considering how unhygienic the old man is, he could so easily eat something that had gone bad. With those teeth of his, he wouldn’t even taste that it was off. Once the agony of it set in he wouldn’t be able to get help and he would die of poisoning. On the other hand, if in fact he owns a bath, he could slip getting in, fall and hit his head. If he tumbled into the bath unconscious he would drown. There again, falling in the kitchen with a large, extremely sharp knife in his hand could be immediately fatal; especially if it was driven straight into his heart. She knows that he smokes. He could have an accident in his bedroom one night. A smouldering cigarette end falling to the floor. His death would be slow and very painful, with him gasping for air, collapsing through a lack of oxygen and eventually dying right there while the flames licked around until the whole house…

She was in one of these reveries when she heard the gate go. A tap-tap at the door; he never uses the bell. He stands there holding letters, grinning with broken, black and yellow teeth.

“Oh!” she says with feigned surprise, “that’s very kind of you.” She says this the way she always says it.

As he closes the gate he gives a little wave.

She smiles, waves back, and closes the door.