Author: Alexander Fawn

They are so often undefined, misunderstood or simply unrecognised for what they are.

These are things that sometimes plague a host; any one of which may be discounted, resulting in the host’s disadvantage or even peril.

It can be a shadow, moving where there is none or the sound of a whisper in an empty room. It can be the sound of rain when there is none. The sudden taste of a fruit when you have eaten none. The cold shiver in a warm bath or the chill that surprises you on a sunny day. The hand that holds yours when no one is there. The feeling of knowing what is going to come next. The pain in a limb that is no longer there. The lump in your throat when you’ve not eaten.

It can be the smell of a rose, although made of paper or seeing auras when others see nothing. It is the alert feeling when there is no visible danger around. Knowing your way around where you haven’t been before, momentarily not recognizing someone you know, or seeing a doppelganger. Denying something that you really know. Feeling an incline when on flat ground, the enjoyment of another’s misfortune or the wish to believe a lie. It can be a voice in the head, a persistent itch, or the secret admiration for a wrongdoer.

It can be the momentary feeling of having no memory of a previous action. The realisation that others had full lives of their own. The frustration when realising how unimportant a current conversation is. Mentally replaying an argument, changing it to result in a victory. A wish to return to a younger self to tell of the future. Distressed that all the world’s books could not be read. It can be like feeling comfortable and likening it to a return to the womb.

It can be the desire to be a child again. The annoyance of only being able to inhabit one place at a time. The strange feeling when suddenly locked in a mutual gaze. Feeling nostalgia for a time never known. The growing desire to care less about life. The sense of repeating some past event. The impatience felt when predicting how long it takes to fully develop a relationship or the insistent sensation of being out of place. The impinging realisation of not living to see what the future will bring. The belief that life no longer makes sense.

All of the above, and a tumult of others, sit waiting to be experienced.

In many cases, simply waiting to be casually dismissed, sent back into the region of the unknown…

The man sat at his open laptop, daydreaming.

There were days like this, when he didn’t do any actual writing. He would call up ideas on his laptop and look them over, maybe make hand-written notes about what he was reading, sometimes typing in a few additional points, and then shelving it all to be considered later. On other occasions he would steam ahead, banging out all sorts of material, some being completed items, others being fleshed out, and then tucked away in folders were such things belong. He sat for a while contemplating his own particular style of what he called scribbling.

Generally, he had found, through his own reading, that brief, succinct and yet comprehensive descriptions of a subject are often hard to find. He estimated that when a reader has neither the time, nor the inclination, to read a book in order to gain an understanding of a topic, the compact version is invaluable. He considers that for the writer, the greatest challenge, after reading the subject, often taking in several reference works, is to reduce all the knowledge down to a concise narrative; short yet complete. For him, it was like this with stories. In other words, to paint a picture with as few words as possible.

In general, he avoided giving his characters names, in the main he regarded these being superfluous to his stories. He considered that giving a name may bring about some kind of personal memory prompt; someone the reader liked or someone they didn’t. He tended to keep adjectives and adverbs to a minimum; likewise with the number of characters, with a preference for just one or two. Metaphors had never held much interest for him. He had always considered them rather trite, despite the fact that most advice was to recognise how wonderful they are.

For him, it had always been about brevity. He had felt a sense of powerful elation on coming across Friedrich Nietzsche’s idea that it was his ambition to say in ten sentences what others say in a whole book. Although it might be considered that a short-short story should contain between one-hundred and one-thousand words, this was not his usual goal. In the main, he had modelled his stories on the basis that they would contain somewhere between three and six hundred words.

On the subject of averages, a standard piece written, using five-hundred words, would only take three minutes to read. It was his overall intention to choose an effective and meaningful title, along with a simple opening line that adequately set the scene. He felt that this needed to be an introductory description that would lead into the heart of the story. He had always strived to keep his poems and stories as short and as simple as possible. He did his best to focus on a key emotion to drive a story. He tried to limit the number of scenes, to one if possible, and he constantly endeavoured to concentrate on some small, yet powerful moment in a character’s life.

Many of his stories are just simple moments, suggestive of life statements, usually occurring between limited players, most often just two. These are brief domestic moments that indicate some instance, either reflecting on or leading up to, the twists and turns of the human condition. In many cases this genre falls just outside of the constraints of science fiction.

Regarding the activity of writing, ideas for new material or updates to existing work, can kick in at any time. He reflected on the fact that he found no need to use overt violence, descriptions of nudity, explicit sexual content, bad language or references to substance abuse to tell his stories.

He likes to think that his stories are simple, although his somewhat shadowy style has occasionally got him into trouble with his readers. Using something of an opaque veil drawn down over events, together with an apparently unrelenting enigmatic style, can unhappily leave a reader puzzled. His attempt to make adjustments in this area had only been partially successful, although he genuinely wants his tales to be enjoyed. This probably comes down to one of those ‘I am what I am’ things.

Over time, it seems that a pattern of genres has emerged. On reflection, crime, drama and mystery along with fantasy and comedy, with a touch of the absurd and the whimsical thrown in, would seem to sum it up. He tried to present a variety of plots and moods. In truth, the reason that these categories come about can only be put down to the fact that he finds them the easiest to write.

As for the future, because he never seems to be short of ideas, he reflects on the fact that his apparently widely-scattered group of blog-readers are likely to continue to stumble into his offerings for some time yet.

He would just keep on scribbling.

It all started the day her Auntie was called in as a last minute babysitter.

She would have to admit that it didn’t happen very often, but when it did, it was dreadful. After all, she was eight going on nine. Old enough to have a mind of her own. Old enough to make decisions for herself. Auntie didn’t see it that way. She was very bossy. It all started the moment her parents left for her father’s company dinner. They wouldn’t be back very late they said. She knew that this meant she’d be spending the entire evening with this nasty woman. With the sound of the car pulling out into the street, it started.

“Now, young Miss.” She often called her that. “I don’t want any nonsense from you. I’d like to spend a nice quiet evening watching my favourite shows on the television. I don’t see why I should miss them, just because I have to be here looking after you.”

The girl broke into tears. Wiping her eyes, she said, “Mummy said I could watch my recorded animal program while they were out.”

“Humph!” came the reply. “You can forget that!”

So, this is how it started. It went on for over an hour before the girl simply couldn’t take it anymore…

It was quite late when her parents returned. They were chatting happily as they came in. They had both been drinking and they kept breaking into fits of giggles. Up in her bedroom their daughter could hear them laughing. They had been home several minutes before climbing the stairs clumsily to check on her.

As they entered, her mother said, “Oh! Where’s your Auntie?”

“Gone,” the girl replied, without looking at her.

The mother was sobered by the news. “You mean she left you all alone?”

“Yep. She’s gone.”

With this, the parents carried out a thorough search of the house. Finding no sign of the woman, they rang her home, only to discover her husband was waiting for her to return. Of course, a police report was made, and within the week a full investigation was started, with newspaper articles alerting the public to the mystery. Both parents were deeply disturbed by the whole affair. They were left with the strange feeling that their daughter was not being entirely honest with them.

Time went on and the missing person report was lost among all the others. A further year saw the parents confronted again with the need to ask a relative to act as a sitter for them.

When informed of this, the daughter said, “No need. I’m totally able to look after myself,’ then, with the strangest of looks, asked, “Do you really want to do that?”

They were both shocked by the way this was said. They talked it over. Would they get a sitter in or not?

They decided they wouldn’t.

Free wind, free sea, free waves, free tides, free verse.

Free verse based on a free view.

A free view framed as it is by

Dune, fir and horizon.

A triangular wedge of blue-grey sea,

Flecked with strips of white;

And deep within those endless depths,

Unseen movement, mysterious and beguiling.

Below the drifts and flows of a turbulent ocean

Other currents flow unseen.

Moving unknowable creatures as they drift.

As they glide through the deepest waters,

Knowing nothing of great swells and crashing waves,

As we know nothing of them.

A calm whispering born in the wind.

Telling birds they may pass.

Ripples hitting the sea;

A bobbing of broken driftwood,

Headed for some distant shore;

Destination unknown.

The sea sings its primordial song,

And any listening soul becomes adrift in it,

Becomes cradled by the sea and what it tells,

What it is and will ever be.

So vast the ocean, so deep, so dark,

With only waves to show the heart of it.

Here, violent waves, smashing cliff and rock;

A thrusting vortex of relentless force.

Others there, breaking silently,

Rolling out a carpet of white bubbling foam.

A gentle stirring of water.

Soothing sounds of soft lapping.

Regardless, each wave being born again.

They never really die.

Both large and small,

They dance with so much power.

It stirs the heart.

The room is small and dimly lit.

She can’t rightly say how long she has been in it; only a couple of days, as far as she could tell. It is not a well-appointed room, although the mattress is surprisingly comfortable. There remains little of interest in the half dozen magazines and old newspapers lying in the corner. She has read them all; some of them twice. The tiny window, with one pane in it, looks out over open fields and a distant stand of trees. She takes comfort in her ability to stare out at the beauty of it. She feels it is, in some way, compensation for her predicament.

She sits on the upturned milk crate with a cushion, thinking about how nice it would be to visit her parents, when she gets out. She has no doubt that she will be set free in due course. She knows this because of the occasional visits she receives and the brief chats that go with them. Albeit that such occurrences give no clue as to the identity of her abductor; all such conversations being carried out with the room’s only door shut fast between them.

Her captor is a woman; a strange, middle-aged, single person, but she would have to say not at all unpleasant, as people go. It transpires that she has been living on her own for several years. She is a writer. Nothing of note, she says. To date her career has seen a few short articles published in a locally produced gardening magazine, but the lady wants to write a book. A crime novel no less. It is for this reason, along with her fastidious desire for authenticity that she carried out the kidnapping in the first place. She needed to know whether such an activity was truly feasible. It was explained in a rather off-hand manner that, when the time came, the detainee would be given the same harmless sleeping potion that she was offered when she had accepted the lift.

On the cold night in question, she had been hitchhiking later in the day than intended. She was on the first of a two week walking holiday. She was tired of the regular work breaks she took and wanted something different. By the time the friendly vehicle came along it was completely dark. There was an icy wind blowing and she was still some way from the village she was heading for. A place where she had booked a bed for the night.

As the driver of the vehicle pulled up she could just make out several boxes piled up on the front seat. She could see virtually nothing of the lady driver, who was apologetic about only offering her the back seat. She said she was heading for the village herself. The hitchhiker accepted gladly, and was most grateful when the driver handed back a thermos of hot coffee.

As for how long she remained unconscious, how long the drive had taken or how far they travelled on the night, she had no idea. Although, when she eventually woke it was broad daylight outside. Now, she felt quite sure, it was only a question of time. Every time the little dog-flap at the bottom of the door was unbolted to slide in a tray of food and drink, as meagre as it was, the occupier of the cell actually hoped the drink would herald her escape. With that in mind, she never hesitated in quaffing it down quickly. This would be followed by a period of sitting on the crate, waiting.

She does this now and smiles as a warm sleepiness moves over her.

It is night-time again when she wakes to find herself sitting, propped up on the back wall of the public house she was originally heading for.

She got up, went inside, apologised for showing up late and got a bed for the night. In her room, she didn’t have to think for very long before coming to the decision that she’d keep the events of the last few days to herself. After all, she had wanted something different and that’s what she got.

However, she couldn’t help wondering whether there were any murders in the ladies book!

When she needed it, it was always there, it went with her everywhere.

Mum and Dad, on their wedding day, looking so happy… Sometimes, it was enough to slip her hand in her pocket and feel its corners; feel the flatness of it in its plastic jacket. The cover that fits it so well; that protects it, keeps it safe. Whenever she needed it, it was there. She could take it out and look at it; talk to it sometimes. She could share her thoughts and dreams. She would tell it about the bad times and the good. More recently, she could tell it about how her life was getting brighter. She had been homeless most of her life, and it was only recently that things began to pick up.

Of late, she kept the family photo in her purse; the owning of a purse being an indication of how her life was truly moving on. She had found a job that she could do and do well. She worked in the kitchen of a café, preparing all sorts of hot food to order. She seemed to have a natural talent for it. She was now renting in a house with three other girls, one of them waitressing in the same place.

It was only she who knew that the photo was the most precious thing that she possessed. It was sad to think that she was shuffled around from one institution to another with such frequency in her very first years of life. It was sad to think that she has been homeless for such a long time. It was sadder still, when you consider that she found the photo, along with some scraps of paper, stuck beneath the wheel of a rubbish skip, in an alley where she slept one night.

Nevertheless, only she knows the value she places on it.

It is enough that she knows.

All things considered, it turned out to be a good year for the kid living at the end of the street.

The truth of it was, there was always plenty of drink in the house. His parents used to buy whatever booze their heart’s desired, very cheap, on a regular basis, from the woman at number 12.

His father was a doorman and bouncer in a night club and occasional burglar, it was just a spot of house-breaking whenever the opportunity presented itself.

His mother was a prostitute, drug dealer and backstreet abortionist, when required.

His sixteen year old sister was a prostitute and occasional mud wrestler.

His father’s criminal associates frequently visited the house, sometimes to plan jobs, other times simply to get drunk, shout and swear a lot.

His father was eventually caught having an affair with the woman at number 12.

Soon after this, his sister found religion.

His parents continued to have lots of arguments, which on occasions, became violent and physical.

Then, quite by accident, the kid discovered that the estranged and long-gone husband of the lady at number 12 was his real father.

It was around this time that his sister got a really good job as a receptionist in a global resources company.

His mother died from an overdose of drugs.

His dad won some money at a dogfight.

His sister married a fifty-something multi-millionaire oil baron and moved into his huge mansion out on the edge of town.

His step-dad married the daughter of the woman from number 12.

The woman from number 12 committed suicide.

His sister’s husband died of pulmonary tuberculosis, and his step-dad got shot in a police raid at the night club.

So… he moved in with his sister.

The man watched the customer at the ATM.

As the customer came away folding a couple of twenties, the man approached. “Excuse me,” he said, with a pained expression, “I’m a bit desperate and I’m looking for someone to help me out.”

The customer looked him over and said, “You don’t look as though you need a handout.”

“No,” replied the man, “I’m not looking for one, a lack of money is certainly not my problem.”

The other shrugged. “OK then, how can I help?”

The man looked around. “Is there a coffee bar or something where we can sit and talk?”

“There’s one just around the corner,” he looked at his watch, “I don’t have a lot of time.”

The other smiled. ”This won’t take long.”

Sitting with cups of coffee the man had paid for, he produced a small plastic wallet and handed it over.

The other opened it and peered inside. “Nothing in here,” he said.

The man smiled, “Oh! but there is!”

“What?”

“Bitcoins. Two, in fact,” the man replied.

“Bitcoins,” the other echoed. “I’ve heard of them but don’t know what they are.”

“OK. It’s simple really,” the other went on, “It’s virtual money. Bitcoin is an encrypted digital currency that operates outside of the banking system. The truth is, my uncle, who owns the company I work for, is dead against them. He says it’s a scam and when the bubble bursts we’ll all lose our money. All nonsense, of course, but he’s threatened to fire me unless I divest myself of my share of them. So, here we are.”

“Wow! But why me?”

“I saw you out there at the machine and you seemed to be an upright sort of person. My deadline is running out. I need to sell them to a stranger. I don’t want anyone that I know to get wind if it. Apart from the embarrassment, each of them will be annoyed that I didn’t approach any of them with this offer.” He shook his head. “I think it’s a wonderful way of making money, but until he changes his mind, my uncle won’t keep me on if I don’t do this. He does pay me very well and I would stand to lose a great deal more if I don’t get rid of them.”

“There’s only a couple in there, but together they’re currently worth over ten thousand. You can check the updated price on the Internet. I want to get rid of them quickly. If you can come up with say, five hundred, they’re yours. My problem will be solved.”

“Thank you. You can count me in.”

“OK. Just one thing”. He took out a small piece of paper. “I’ve made up this simple form. A receipt if you like; it states that this transaction has been made. We both need to sign and date it. This way I can show my uncle proof that I no longer own them.”

They both signed.

The customer stood up “I’ll get the money,” he said.

The other leant across and took the wallet back. “I hope you don’t mind if I hang on to it for now, we are strangers after all.”

“Of, course not. I’ll be right back.”

On his return he was given the wallet again. He opened it up and looked inside. Seemingly satisfied, he handed over the cash.

The man picked up the signed form and put it in his pocket, careful to place it in a pocket separate from the wad of blank forms.

They both stood, and after a handshake, they went their separate ways.

Without doubt, they were destined to never meet again.

 Nature’s voice blows with a chilling breeze.

It blows with a truth that’s cold.

Through so many stands of leafless trees.

Each year the story’s retold.

–

A dull reflection in the sky.

Carpets of leaves showing black.

While possible storms are always a given,

As warmer weather hangs back.

–

Daylight subdued by winter’s cloak

Beneath a sky that’s grey.

Nature paints on a cold-hearted canvas,

In the pale shadow of day.

–

Birds perch on leafless trees

With their claws fully clasped.

Bare branches dance their miserable rhythm

While feathers ripple against winter’s blast.

Under dark, foreboding clouds we go,

Breathing the crispness of frosty air.

Often unwilling, with blood ever chilling;

Donning winter wear.

–

Faces whipped with a wind that stings,

With a liquid coldness in eyes and nose.

A creeping numbing of the bones.

Cheeks with a growing flush that shows.

–

It’s a cold too close for comfort,

When nature’s voice comes on a chilling breeze,

With veins that throb with blood that’s chilled,

And all nature’s progress seems to freeze,

With so many stands of leafless trees.

The lady in the post office was very patient with him.

He stood looking around for an example of what he wanted, but couldn’t find one. This was annoying. After all, he was in a post office. The word hadn’t gone, of course, it had just been temporarily mislaid. Eventually he swallowed his pride and stood pretending to lick a stamp and put it on a letter. This was despite the fact that you didn’t actually lick them anymore.

“Ah!” she said, with a grin, “you want a stamp.”

“That’s it, yes, stamp! Thank you.”

How could he forget the word stamp? He went on into the shopping centre. He wasn’t looking forward to it.

It all went well until he was trying to ask the guy in the fruit shop if he had any pomegranates. He couldn’t see any on display, so he tried to get the message across by pointing at other fruit and wriggling his hand, palm down, to indicate that he wanted something similar. The shop keeper was less patient than the lady in the post office, but was reluctantly willing to rattle off as many fruits as he could think off that weren’t on show. This, of course, was not a good advertising strategy from his point of view.

A small crowd was gathering, interested to hear that the fruiterer could not provide any of the fruits being mentioned. Occasionally, one of the women would offer a suggestion. This went on until an elderly lady said, “Pomegranate?”

 With a smile of relief, he said, “Yes. Thank you, madam.” There was a small ripple of applause while the shop owner shook his head and scurried to the back of the store.

At home, he relayed all this to his wife, who commiserated with him and made him a nice cup of tea.

That evening they sat watching the evening news. One of the topics, one that he felt particularly strongly about, dealt with the recognition of a local church.

Well now, he thought, this was an obvious case of a very strong opposition to the state withdrawing its support from what is, clearly, an established church.

He thought about it.

It was a clear case of antidisestablishmentarianism, and he wanted to say so.