Author: Alexander Fawn

There was nothing really noteworthy about the rock.

Nevertheless, the objet d’art took pride of place on the hall table. It was the first thing seen as anyone entered the house. She placed it on a small, lace doily, to set it off. People often asked about it. She would come up with all manner of stories regarding its history, none of them true. It was just some game she enjoyed playing. Her ex-husband would not have appreciated it. He would certainly have said that her secret, fanciful ideas about it were a complete nonsense. That was the way he was.

Even with their children, now all grown up and moved on, when they were small and adventurous they would often bring things into the house that they declared where precious, only to have him insist on whatever it was being thrown out. It was as though he had no fantasy factor. No willingness to let imagination take over from logic. Something she had always been adept at.

The accident had happened while on holiday; just the two of them. She had wanted to visit the waterfall ever since finding pictures of it on the Internet. It was such a beautiful spot, although a long walk was required to get to it. There were signs erected for tourists, giving directions from the broader tracks that ran through the forest. A warning was posted regarding occasional rock falls and the need to take care. Naturally, he didn’t want to make the effort, despite knowing how much it meant to her. After the usual process of making her feel guilty, he relented.

They made their way slowly along the narrow trail, occasionally finding evidence of a recent subsidence, in the form of scatterings of material across the path. However, it was worth it. The place was even more magnificent than she could possibly have pictured. The fall itself was dramatic enough, but the surrounding greenery produced a scene that would rival any depiction of such a place created by an artist. She felt rapturous at the sight of it and was in the process of providing her own fanciful ideas about it being a place where wood nymphs may well come and go when he had added his own uncalled-for observation. The brunt of it being that she had always been a looney.

The piece of granite had been wrapped in an old tea towel, placed in a biscuit tin and tucked away on a top shelf in the laundry. Finally came the placement of it. It was a painful wait for her. She felt she should hold off for at least three weeks after the funeral before placing the rock in the chosen position of prominence, just inside the front door. When the time came, she didn’t want to clean it up, but she did.

At the very least, she would wash the blood off it.

The abduction was very swift.

One minute he was brushing his teeth at the mirror, with his wife calling out not to be long as she needed the bathroom, the very next, he was laying, strapped to a table. There was movement around him, but he couldn’t see through what seemed to be some sort of gorse fabric, draped across his head.

After a great deal of throat-clearing the questions started. Questions that went on and on. For hours he lay there being bombarded with questions. So many questions. Some of the earlier questions about evolution and natural selection he was willing to have a stab at. He knew enough to know that this guy Darwin had come up with the idea that evolution is brought about through natural selection. He enjoyed learning about that at school. His inquisitors seemed relatively happy with the answers he gave. Finally, the head covering was removed to reveal the grotesque heads and shoulders of the three alien beings.

Unfortunately, his ability to keep his captors happy didn’t last. He simply couldn’t understand the questions being put to him. He really knew nothing of Newton’s laws of motion or Kepler’s laws of planetary motion. As for Archimedes’ buoyancy principle and Hubble’s law of cosmic expansion, well, they meant nothing at all to him. On and on the questions came, about the laws of thermodynamics, the universal law of gravitation and cosmic microwave background radiation. All this went on, until he simply couldn’t take it anymore.

In desperation, he shouted, “If you want to know that, you need to ask a scientist!”

One of the creatures came closer to the table and leaned over him, staring down.

“I’m not a scientist, I’m a roof-tiler.”

The strange head shook from side to side, slowly. It turned to the others.

“You know, a roof-tiler;” he went on, “I work on house roofs, putting tiles on.”

All three heads started shaking.

Back, staring into the mirror, he was standing motionless, holding his toothbrush. He jumped at the voice coming from the bedroom.

“Are you finished?”

With great effort, he called back, as calmly as he was able, “Yes, dear. All done.”

You don’t often find typographical errors in a telephone directory, but it can happen.

He used to jump regularly when he was serving time in the air force, but not anymore.

He no longer jumped in the service of his country. No, he only wrote about it now. Journalism had taken the place of action. It wasn’t the same. He wasn’t sure why he came back here every few years to do it again; why he came back to pay for a jump. Cash down for a regular twelve thousand feet; just one turn of the altimeter, no need for oxygen apparatus. Was this just a way of kindling old memories? He didn’t think so. Was it a way of proving to himself that he was still up to it? No, not that either. Maybe, he just did it to break the monotony of his humdrum existence. That was probably closer to the truth than anything else.

It will never be known how the strap holding the chute-pack came free, but when it did, the whole thing got violently ripped off and tossed away. The incredible force of the wind grew stronger as he plummeted. The indescribable terror that took hold of him held fast for the longest time before changing, softening somehow. The horror of it was moving through some strange and incomprehensible transition, through to something else. Something calming. Along with this sense of growing euphoria came the image.

Blinding at first, then softening to show the full glory of the Archangel Gabriel, the great messenger of God. Gabriel, who traditionally helps journalists, writers, artists and teachers to convey their messages. Gabriel, with spreading arms and colossal wings. Wings, that would sweep together to form a loving embrace. Wings, waiting to break his fall. Into them, he fell. The peace and tranquillity of the moment he left the body, a thing no longer required. Who could have possibly imagined such a peaceful and happy way to go?

A strong smell of disinfectant stung his nostrils. He could hear buzzing and clicking behind his bed.

The damage to the fruit farmer’s netting was extensive. The tree that took the brunt of the fall would have to be replaced. The God-fearing owner of the land, knowing the circumstances, made no claim of any kind.

Despite all this… the man in the bed gave thanks to Gabriel.

The first is the first of twenty six,

And this is easy enough,

But looking for two that appear at noon,

Is when things start to get tough.

–

You may say “Oh! Gee!” when looking for this.

Phonetics play a big part.

While seeking a pair in a vacuum,

Try not to pull them apart.

–

When looking for this,

It’s not so easy to miss,

Just how common can you get?

And what is to come,

Although rather humdrum,

Is the nastiest of them yet.

–

So, when digging so deep

Into what nexus we keep,

It’s hardly worth the fuss.

The statistical measure of the linear relationship

Between a dependent and an independent variable

Can be simply represented thus.

It was a special family outing.

Mum, Dad and daughter all left home early to make sure they would get in. The new bird sanctuary and reserve had only been open a week and was proving to be very popular. Naturally, it was the children who were particularly excited to see all kinds of birds they had never seen before; to see them up so close was a real treat. The reserve had only been open a few minutes when they parked, but a huge crowd was sifting through the front turnstile as they approached. The grounds were extensive, with many large enclosures and even more small cages for the smaller varieties. The family worked its way around following the paths and signposts. They stopped occasionally to read the plaques mounted on the cage fronts.

The girl was especially fond of owls and spent a long time peering through the netting, chatting amiably with them as they sat perched on dead branches, occasionally swooping down to ground level. She wasn’t at all happy with them being caged, but it did mean she could take a closer look at them. One owl came so close to the fence that she found she could pass her tiny hands through two of the openings, hold her disposable camera phone inside the compound, and get a really good close picture.

She was doing this when a visitor bumped her and she dropped the camera. At this point, the owl seemed to take an interest in what had arrived; it started to frantically peck at it. At this point she let out a howl and her father made his way through the crowd to investigate. Most people took a great deal of interest in what had happened and he had to push his way through.

Seeing the problem, they all went looking for a zoo official, while the mother voiced her opinion yet again that her daughter was simply too young to be given a camera. The father agreed that when they got it back he would take charge of it until they got home and he could assess the damage. The keeper was very understanding about it and it was retrieved. The disappointed daughter would have to wait to see whether any of her snaps had come out. Fortunately, the long drive home meant that the sleepy girl went straight to bed.

Later that evening, the father wiped the camera clean of dirt and straw and went in to see what he could find. His young daughter would be delighted that all her pictures were intact, but he felt he should delete the message scratched out on the back. The mother agreed.

It read: Please set me free!

 

 

 

It was the tatty old trainers that gave him away.

There he was, riding the bus with his feet up on the back of the seat in front. From the rear, raised section of the city’s shuttle bus she had a good view of them, but only them. She wondered what he was doing in town. Surely he hadn’t got a job. She considered with a deep and genuine sense of sadness that he, like some many of his kind, would probably never get a job. School was a year behind them both now. She liked the company she had gone to and was planning to do some extra study in the evenings during the following year.

She sat thinking about what sort of person he had been all through their school years. He was always rude, especially to girls. He loved showing off all the time. He seemed to be convinced that he was something special in some way. He wasn’t, of course. He didn’t have any friends of any consequence; being a bully he had a few hangers-on, only because they were afraid of him. The more she thought about it the more depressed she felt.

Every now and again he would wiggle his feet from side to side. He was probably trying to attract attention. She couldn’t remember where he lived. She hoped in earnest that he got off before her. She didn’t fancy the thought of walking past him.

She knew he came from a poor family, but that was no excuse. Other kids were in the same boat and had done well. All this was bringing so much back to her. The day he made her best friend cry. All the clowning around he did on sports day; how embarrassing was that? The time he hid some boy’s clothes so they weren’t there when he got back from the cross-country run. She closed her eyes and shook her head momentarily; he was such a sad case.

Those shoes! Horrible old things, falling apart, with little gold patches on them, now fading. That’s probably why he got them in the first place… little gold patches. She suddenly realised with some clarity that these old bumpers summed him up. That was what he was; how he lived his life; they represented the real him!

Her stop came up and he didn’t move. She moved quickly to the door at the last minute and jumped off as the bus pulled up. She stood, shaking a little, pretending to read the timetable; he didn’t get off.

She didn’t start walking until the bus was truly out of sight.

The businesswoman stepped out from the hotel and made for the beach.

It was late in the afternoon and the stretch of sand along the bay would be almost empty. A late paddle wasn’t her usual thing, but the news was good, so this would be a celebration. She had just checked the current state of her bitcoin wallet and was feeling really pleased with herself. She regarded herself as being pretty savvy when it came to business finance.

The weather had been warm and the cool salty water felt very pleasant as it lapped over her feet. She splashed along in the shallow water for some time before deciding she should return to her room.

As she strolled back along the water’s edge, she saw something shiny tumbling in the surf. She bent and picked it up. It was a beautiful little bottle, green, with exquisite patterns etched around it. As she regarded it, she considered that it could well be quite precious.

Holding it up to the dying sun, she could make out a small piece of paper inside. It had a glass stopper that required some effort to pull free. She tipped out the paper and peered at it in the diminishing light. It was difficult to read. It was faded and appeared to be in some ancient style of script. She could just decipher the word replacement, but she couldn’t be sure.

Then, in the briefest of moments, the glass stopper rattled back into place and she was gone.

Nearby, a bemused young page from the court of King Henry VIII stood looking around.

The bottle, apparently of its own volition, was bobbing away, floating back out into the open sea.

The girl entered the conservatory cautiously, looking around.

When she spotted the professor sitting near the window, staring out into the garden, she approached him with a sense of finality. “I have it now,” she said. “I’ve worked it out. I know, without doubt, that it was you who murdered that nice old Doctor Black.”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous!”

“There’s no doubt about it. You murdered him in the kitchen with the lead pipe,” she said.

A voice came from behind her. “He couldn’t have.”

She swung around to face the cook.

“At the time of the murder the professor was with me in the kitchen,” she said indignantly. “If you want to go around making accusations like that, you should talk to the actress.”

The girl thought for a moment. “Ah! Yes. I’ve got it now,” she said, and hurried out.

She found the actress in the study reading a magazine. She cried out, “I’ve got it now! You did it, didn’t you?”

The actress looked up. “Did what?”

“You strangled the doctor with the rope in the hall. Don’t deny it.”

“I couldn’t have,” came the reply. “At the time I was with the reverend in the dining room.”

“Prove it!” the girl shouted.

Obviously, very annoyed the actress got up and they went looking for the reverend and found him in the library, engrossed in a book.

“This silly girl has accused me of murder, would you believe?” she said with a sneer.

He shook his head. “I don’t think so, my child. At the time we were together, I can assure you of that.” He thought for a moment. “However, now that I come to think about it, I did hear the colonel call out, followed by a loud bang that came from the billiard room.”

The girl stamped her foot in frustration. “All right,” she said, “that must be it. Finally. Where is the colonel now?”

“How would we know,” the actress scoffed. She turned to the reverend. “Perhaps we should go with her and put an end to all this silly nonsense.” The reverend sighed, put his book down and followed them.

Outside, in the corridor, they found the cook and the professor waiting for them. With all the commotion going on, they had decided to join the others. At this point, they all went looking for either the colonel or the governess. They found them both in the lounge. The elderly governess was sitting in an armchair with her leg raised. The colonel was placing a cushion between a low table and her foot.

The reverend went to the governess and took her hand asking, “Are you alright, my dear?” She looked up, saying, “Yes. I’ll be fine. I was very clumsy. I knocked over that little table and it caught my toes when it went down. It would have been much worse if I hadn’t been wearing sturdy shoes.” She looked around and seemed to notice the others for the first time. “The colonel has been very kind; he’s been looking after me. Is anything wrong?”

The reverend straightened. “No. Not really. This young lady seems to be bent on accusing one of us of murdering the doctor.”

The colonel eyed her with disbelief. “How dare you. Why, I know all of these people and can assure you none of them is capable of such a wicked thing. Who the devil are you anyway?

With an indignant tone, she replied, “I’m Miss Brown.”

“Well, there you are then. You’re not even in this game!”

With that they all pushed her out into the street.

He is a great big long-haired loving cat,

Maine Coon is his breed.

Worshiped in Egypt, so they say.

A noble creature indeed.

–

Luxurious fur and mighty tail,

Handsome whiskers, paws and claws,

Gorgeous coat and silent walk,

Forever in and out of doors.

–

He doesn’t like loud noises,

He’s really not a fan.

He hides beneath the sofa.

And he hates the mower man!

–

He proudly goes by the name of ‘Rain’,

But a subtle problem lies within,

For when we call him in the garden,

Neighbours rush out to bring their washing in.

–

Banging into ankles in the kitchen,

Always tripping over him,

Giving meows of near starvation,

Then eating food on a whim.

–

Settling down in the evening,

Curling on my loved one’s lap.

TV news reports go by unseen

While they both take a nap.

–

Sometimes, when I’m most in need,

He settles on my patio chair.

We have an understanding.

I can use it when he’s not there.

All in all, he’s a good old mate,

While with some things he tends to lack,

I often express my views on things,

And he never answers back!

Nobody would have suspected what the old woman living at number ten was doing.

Over a period of just a few short months, she had won several large amounts in the national lottery. Each time this was accomplished a donation was made anonymously to the various cat havens and charities that operated locally.

Naturally, an activity such as this doesn’t go undetected for very long and the inevitable investigation that followed uncovered enough evidence that an undercover agent from the Fraud Squad was assigned the case. Although he felt that he had enough evidence to question her, he would approach her informally at first. Taking her in for questioning would not work. She would clam up. He decided to call on her.

At the door, he said, “I hope you don’t mind my calling in on you like this, it seems a bit of a cheek, I know, but I’ve heard that you’ve been winning big time on the lottery draw of late”

“You have?”

He looked embarrassed. “Well, I know it’s supposed to be confidential, but I have a friend you see, and he… well, anyway, I’ve had wins myself. I’ve been quite successful with my system really, but you can never stop learning, can you? I thought we might compare schemes.”

She nodded happily. “Oh! That sounds lovely. I just love buying the tickets, it’s such a wonderful hobby. Do come in.”

After making cups of tea, they sat in her lounge discussing the special thrill that comes with winning. Eventually, he asked, “Have you been doing it long?”

She smiled mischievously. “You wouldn’t believe how long. Anyway, I’m sure you want to know what I put my success down to, don’t you?”

“Well, yes, I’d be most interested.”

“Witchery.”

“Sorry, I don’t understand.”

“You know, witchcraft. The ancient art of spell casting.”

He gave a small smirk. “Spell casting, you say.”

She went on, “Yes. When casting spells we do have to follow the Wiccan rules, you know.”

“Really?”

“Oh! Yes. There are strict rules of conduct, rules that all witches must follow when practising their art. Didn’t you know that?”

He began to feel uncomfortable. “No. I can’t say I did. However, I feel obliged to tell you at this point that I’m not really here to…”

“No, of course you’re not,” she interrupted, “I knew that the moment you rang my bell.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You did?” He produced his ID. “I think we need to have you come in for questioning regarding the recent…”

She waved him off. “Oh! That won’t be necessary.”

“It won’t?”

“No.” The finger that was pointed at him made small circles.

He began to purr.

She threw up her hands. “What a lovely colour.” She picked him up and stroked him gently. “I think we’ll call you Marmalade. Yes, we’ll drop you off at the Cat Haven near the bus station.”

It was time to move on.