Author: Alexander Fawn

Tenzin was a monk with a murky past.

He had committed so many indiscretions that his brothers had lost count. That is why the other monks had sequestered him in the little patch of garden. It was fenced in by a low wall of stakes that had been covered with barbed wire. He was supposed to be there in order to repent. But Tenzin didn’t feel a bit like repenting. He’d had it with this religion. He figured it was broth time.

The Order had many virtues, but choice was not one of them. With each passing day in the monastery he had drifted away from the doctrine of predestination. A notion that the Almighty had, in consequence of his foreknowledge of all events, set out a path for all those destined for salvation. Some of the arguments that had taken place during the evening meal had become so heated that he had been sent off to bed without supper.

Yes, it was definitely broth time. He looked around his little plot. He had all of the ingredients right here in the garden; potatoes, celery, carrots and onions. As it happened, he was on kitchen duty.

That evening he was chopping up vegetables and dropping them into a pot. When he found himself alone with his chores, from under his garment he took a small bottle and gave it a shake. He did it once and he would do it again. He prayed desperately that he wouldn’t reincarnate as himself for the second time. What were the odds?

Meantime, he would conjure up a broth to die for.

Dotty was arranging tiny pieces of crockery, very neatly on a tea tray.

Cups and spoons were being placed carefully onto saucers. She felt the teapot, it was nice and hot. “That will do nicely” she said. As she returned the pot to the tray she heard something between a snort and a grunt. She looked up to find she had an unexpected visitor. A huge, shaggy, lime green gorilla-like thing sat looking at her. It took up more than half the room in her little cubby-house. It made a gurgling noise and rubbed its nose with a huge paw.

“Oh! Hello,” she said. “I’m Dotty, who are you?”

The thing’s huge eyes glared and it snarled ferociously.

“Oh! I see, you’re probably shy. Well, never mind.”

She swilled the water in the pot and said “You’re just in time for tea. Do you have a name?”

The thing just scratched its armpit.

She thought hard for a moment. “I think I’ll call you Archie. There’s a boy at my playgroup called Archie, but he’s not very nice. Oh! I hope you don’t mind?”

The thing didn’t answer, it only belched and started dribbling.

“That’s all right then, I’ll call you Archie.”

It held out two giant fists and beat its chest a few times.

“Oh! Yes, of course. I’m sure you are thirsty. Sorry Archie.”

She lifted the pot. “Shall I pour?”

His life wasn’t flashing past him by any means.

No. He’d been walking for more than three hours now, looking back at people and events, times he had enjoyed and times he had not. He was walking further and further away from home, further from any hospital, further from his medication on the shelf in the bathroom, further from the aid and help he could expect from friends and neighbours and the like. Is this what he was doing? Yes probably… most probably.

He had now made his way from the inland where he lived, to the sea. He found himself walking along a deserted beach where he could hear the waves rolling. He could smell the brine of the sea and feel the wind coming off the water; hitting him softly in the face. He had enjoyed this so much when he was a boy.

As a boy he had never been much of a swimmer, but just to go down to the sea, look for shells maybe, just to amble along without any care… Where did all the care come from? This care; the care he was feeling now. Why couldn’t he go back to the mindset he had? What was there to stop him?

What he was feeling was beyond any kind of insouciance, this was apathy.

Would he just keep walking and eventually tire to the point where he would have to lay down; lay down and die? How dramatic! Did this sort of thing happen? Bodies being found and people saying “Oh! Yes, poor soul, he or she had a terminal illness you know.” No; he had never heard of it; or maybe such cases were always hushed up. Not suitable for public consumption.

He stopped and looked up, the sky was darkening fast. He began to think about it all. He thought about how there will always be seas with crashing waves, fields with swaying flowers, forests with canopied trees, and people with life-threatening diseases. People will go on loving, dreaming, fighting, and dying. What had the priest said? It was just another test. He had told him it would all become clear on Judgement Day. For several months now, he had no longer felt part of the real world. Could he still appreciate the sheer wonder and perfection of nature and did he continue to comprehend the awesome power that created it all?

Nothing was the same after she went. Her passing had left him empty. Only the onset of this illness gave him something to think about; something to burst in and swamp his life. What he cherished was gone and what he loathed was upon him.

He was thinking of her now. Going back to happy times. He missed her smile and the joy she would exude when she brewed a coffee with her new machine. Lord! How she loved that machine. It wasn’t cheap. They had always loved coffee. He shuddered, and for the briefest of moments he heard the sound of it percolating. Yes, he actually heard it!

Perhaps that was it! All he had to do was listen again to the sound of her machine. He had never used it, she would never let him touch it!

He hadn’t had a decent cup of coffee since she passed away. There must be a book somewhere on how to use it, and there’s bound to be a bag of coffee beans in the cupboard. He could get it going. Make a cup; drink it in her honour. Surely, this was all much too simple. He felt himself smile at the very idea. He hadn’t smiled for months!

He turned for home.

One night, as a boy, in a wood growing dark,

Out much later than was good for me,

I stopped and watched a sitting bird,

Huge and still in the greying light,

On a vigil, on a branch, in a tree.

Some way from home and out too late

I should have hurried on.

But with the glow of its eyes

And its clever disguise,

All thought of being late was gone.

–

Its coat, it matched the bark of the tree.

It sat, a silhouette in grey.

With the poise of a silent guardian,

This bird with an ancient soul

Waiting for its prey.

–

To my young eyes the darkening scene

Was a comic book depiction.

There was a wonder in the moment;

A pastiche of TV images

All based in science fiction.

–

I stood stock still in the growing chill.

Was I emulating the bird?

With natures akin

Our heads would spin

Whenever a sound was heard.

–

I wondered if it minded me being there.

A young lad, facing it square.

Were my thoughts so wide of the mark?

Were we silently bonding in the dark?

Was this something that we could share?

–

At once, it dipped and glided past.

Its wing caressed my hair.

Was this a hello or a sign I should go?

I wondered whether I would ever know,

As I stood shuddering in the cold night air.

–

I cannot say how long I remained,

Standing alone on the track.

It is hard to say

Why there’s such lasting dismay,

That my owl never came back!

Jimmy had always thought it was important to do the right thing.

He believed that good things would always come back to reward anybody who did good works. He had always been an active member of his community, helping out at the church with anything required of him. His work in the youth hostel paid very little but he enjoyed what he did. After all, he was helping people.

The day he found the wallet he was working in the soup kitchen. He had dumped scraps in one of the bins out back and was walking back in, when he kicked something; a small, pink leather wallet. It could have been laying unnoticed for an age, out of the weather and half covered with leaves.

Jimmy opened it up and found it contained dozens of shopping receipts, a cosmetic representative’s business card and two dollars. The name on the card was Margaret Squires. He knew no one with that name, but recognised the nearby town from the printed address. If he was going to return it, and of course he would return it, he would have to use his car; but not before the weekend.

The following Saturday he took the cover off his car, it hadn’t been run for a while. Petrol was expensive and walking was fine; it usually served his needs. He topped up with a minimum of petrol and took off.

It should have been a twenty minute run but heavy downpour slowed the traffic to a crawl. It had just started to pick up when a heavy-laden truck skidded noisily, finally running into the back of him. His own car was pushed into the vehicle in front and within minutes all three drivers and several witnesses were all sheltering in a tiny bus shelter swapping insurance details.

All three vehicles had been pushed off the road, but eventually they all moved off back into the traffic. Jimmy’s car was running rough and finally stopped, creating a further traffic jam. He called a road assistance service to come out and assess his vehicle. This resulted in it being towed to a local garage for repair.

It was now getting dark but Jimmy knew there was no turning back. In order to do the right thing for the owner of the wallet he needed to bus or walk the rest of the way and figure out how he would get home later. He found and studied a timetable, but figured he would be better off just walking the final leg. It would only take around fifteen minutes.

In the meantime the rain had eased but storm clouds were gathering in the darkening sky. As he entered the town the rain grew heavier. He had previously looked up the location of the street but had to look again at the number. He sheltered in a shop doorway and took out the card. It wasn’t far now.

When he arrived at the house it was in darkness. Maybe the people there had turned in already, it was getting late. He could see a car at the side of the house, so he knocked at the door and waited. The rain was bucketing down and he stood close to the door for what little protection it gave him. After a couple of minutes he knocked again, this time louder.

A light finally came on and the door opened to show a sleepy-eyed woman in a dressing gown. “Who are you?” she snapped.

Jimmy stood with his jaw dropped. “You’re Maggie Worthington,” he blurted.

She frowned. “Not any more I’m not.”

“Don’t you recognise me? I’m Jimmy Jarvis. We… we used to go out together, you remember, when we were at school.”

“Oh! God! Yes, of course I remember. I broke up with you. What are you doing here?”

“Well, I came to return your wallet.” He pulled it out of his pocket and handed it to her. “I did my best to keep it dry. It is yours, isn’t it?”

She opened it saying “Yes. I lost it ages ago, but knew it hardly had anything in it so I wasn’t bothered about it.” She looked up. “Two dollars, is that all?”

“Well, yes, but…”

“Let me get this straight,” she interrupted. “You came all this way in the pouring rain to wake me up to return a wallet with only two dollars in it; and to someone you thought was an absolute stranger?”

“Well, yes, it was the right thing to…”

“No wonder I dumped you,” she shouted, and slammed the door.

The elderly couple sat reminiscing late into the evening.

Over the long years of their married life they had always gone somewhere special to celebrate their anniversary and they found that they always had so much to talk about; so many recollections. This evening was no different; most of the diners had left the restaurant without them even noticing.

It was very late but they decided to walk home. Although neither of them could walk very fast, they decided to go the long way back and take a look at their old school. When they arrived they decided to cross the playground and walked up to the main door; the door they had passed through so many times all those decades ago. They both touched it.

Giggling and feeling more than a little childish they made their way back onto the street. It was only moments later that they heard a screeching of tyres followed by an engine revving at a high pitch. A van came hurtling through the main street at high speed and turned sharply into a side road. As it did, one of the back doors flew open and something dropped out.

They were both huddled in a shop doorway. This was an instinctive action on their part. They were shaken up by the whole episode.

After waiting a few minutes they ventured over and picked up what appeared to be a canvas bag. Under a lamp light they opened it and found it was full of neatly banded bank notes. He said “You know we have to turn it in, don’t you?” She said “No we don’t. This is our anniversary remember? This was meant to be, I just know it was.” He said “Well, right now we need to get home. Sooner or later someone’s going to come back.” She agreed, and they made their way home.

Back in their kitchen they counted it out. This didn’t take long as the bundles were all the same. They were looking at more money than they had ever seen; more than they thought possible to cram into a bag that size. She said “I’m going to wrap it in plastic and hide it in the shed. I know you’re not happy about it, but I’m convinced we were meant to have it.” With that she started fossicking around for plastic bags.

The next morning detectives were canvassing the neighbourhood, knocking on doors, hoping someone had information about the missing money. When the knock came she went to the door. They made their usual enquiries, had they seen or heard anything? “No, nothing” she said. “What a terrible business.” she added.

Her husband just couldn’t stay quiet any longer. He came forward saying “Yes, we found it and brought it home. My wife covered it with plastic and hid it in the shed.” She smiled at the policeman and said “Take no notice. He has become rather senile I’m afraid.” The detective said “That’s as maybe madam, but I’d still like to hear what your husband has to say.”

The husband said “Well, we were walking home from school yesterday…”

The detective raised his hand and smiled at the wife knowingly and said “Thank you madam.” and left.

They never found the money.

Snowman sat spinning slowly in his swivel chair.

On each round he looked down at the ‘enter’ key. His excitement was building. Just one tiny click, that’s all it would take. Just a tiny amount of pressure applied to the black, rectangular button and a torrent of digital chaos would make its way out into cyber-space.

It would just sit there like a spider watching its web. It would crouch there in a dark corner of the vast abyss, just waiting to be brushed against. Waiting for the first of the poor souls to let it in.

Snowman, that was his hacker’s name, had spent months developing this particular virus. It was going to be the best ever. Why was he holding off? He wasn’t sure; maybe just building the tension, savouring the moment that he would only know once.

He looked at all the scribbled papers, accumulated over the time he had spent, making notes and cutting code. He, like a spider, lurked unseen in the dingy basement of his grandmother’s house. Looking after her and running errands was a small price to pay for such anonymity.

He already had a couple of high profile attacks to his unheralded credit, all written on this very keyboard. As far as he could tell, no one had any real idea who he was. He talked occasionally to other hackers, but not very often. They knew the Snowman, but had never been able to trace him. His work, with its signature, was in some ways legendary, but not the person.

What was he? A cyber terrorist? A revolutionary with an axe to grind? Was he out to make money or to steal what wasn’t his? No, not really. He was doing it simply because he could. He needed no further reward than that; the accomplishment of it alone was enough.

He spun again and looked down at the keyboard. The programming was in place. Ready to launch a digital influenza that the world would not forget. The fact was, despite being the Grand Master of the ones and zeros, he really had no idea how powerful this nasty germ really was. This virus would not announce itself. It would be invisible one minute, then go hurtling through countless terminals and servers the next.

He leaned forward slowly. His finger hovered. He pressed…

Several moments passed… then minutes.

It didn’t work…

He had been in a big hurry, the morning he found out that Doris wasn’t dead.

He left the house and climbed into his car before noticing the note under his wiper. He sat staring at it for a moment. How could that happen? The car had been in the garage all night. Nobody would have access to get in and stick a note on it. He was annoyed because he was in a hurry. The meeting was an important one, and he was the chair this month. People were relying on him and he couldn’t let them down.

He got out and slammed the door. That made him feel a little better. He put his glasses on and pulled out the paper. A piece of paper, that’s all it was. It must have got trapped under the wiper coming home in the rain last night. It had been very late and in the dark he hadn’t seen it. Swearing, he yanked angrily on the door handle. It wouldn’t budge.

He peered in through the side window at his keys. They included his house key. That meant he couldn’t get into the house to get the spare car key. He looked at his watch. He didn’t want anyone else chairing the meeting, but it wasn’t looking good. He could break in of course. The house alarm was set, and the last time this had happened it was a nightmare. He had managed to get in through a window, setting off the alarm. The security company contacted the police. It took ages to convince them that he really was the homeowner.

He wandered around the side of the house looking for a window that wouldn’t trip the alarm. There was a small window on the second floor that probably wasn’t connected. Too high for any would-be burglar to attempt.

He took the ladder from the shed and leaned it against the house. At the window he stared at the fixings. He figured he could jimmy it open without too much trouble. He returned to the shed, shaking his head as he looked at his watch. He found a tyre lever and climbed back up. He carefully prized the window open. He nearly fell when the siren went off.

An hour later, the police had gone, and he was sitting in the lounge analysing the events of the morning. He was summing it all up. The night before he had come home late and had to record the latest episode of his favourite mystery show. Was Doris really dead? He had to ask the really hard question of himself; deep down, what were his priorities?

He called in sick and switched the telly on and started the recorder…

Words are the powerful tools of life.

They give meaning, create and define.

They’re the bridge to communication,

Both by reason and design.

–

No matter what the language;

Regardless of the tongue.

They serve to paint a picture,

Either written, said or sung.

–

A word can come as a caution, a command or a name;

A direction, or advice or a view;

An instruction, a prompt, an oath or a warning.

To name only a few.

–

They may come as a curse or a verse;

Part of a poem or song;

Building blocks for so many things,

Good, bad, right and wrong.

–

Soft words of care for a dying friend.

An angry shout in a brawl.

Some words come tumbling and cascading out,

While others tremble and stall.

–

Some words go unnoticed,

While some demand trust and respect.

Some are met with disbelief,

Some have a great effect.

–

Whether it’s ink on paper or carvings in wood,

Scratched clay or keyed to a screen;

Cut into stone, or etched onto bone,

Words tend to say what they mean.

Clues hidden in secret places.

Prophesies painted in caves.

Profanities scribbled in toilet blocks.

Epitaphs posted on graves.

–

Words are so very powerful,

Of that there is no doubt.

But by the same token,

When words are not spoken,

My word, they can really shout!

It seemed to be a day like any other when it all started.

Slowly, the people became aware of something happening in the street. Two men stood in full view, glaring at each other. They had always had issues, niggling resentments, and suspicions. They stood like that for hours. It was embarrassing, so for the main part people ignored them.

The next day they could be seen standing in the same place, but now they were arguing. People wondered whether they had really been there all night. Some watched, some ignored, while others were becoming concerned.

On the following day they were still there. Now they were shouting abuse at each other. Word had got around and the onlookers grew in number. They all had their own ideas about what should be done about it. At the very least, it wasn’t good that this dispute was becoming more and more public.

The following day people woke to the sound of a lot of clattering in the street. The two men were now yelling and screaming, and throwing stones at each other. Passers-by had to be careful where they walked. Some voiced concerns about their children. There were still those who thought that it would just blow over in time.

The next day the men had clubs and knives and were beating and stabbing at each other. Both parties were becoming tired and were showing their scars. Each one had broken bones and bleeding from several wounds. This continued into the night and there was a common belief that it would only get worse.

Day after day this same scene played out, while each of the men grew weaker, but with no signs that their resolve to beat the other was diminishing.

One morning, after several weeks, the people went out to find the two still fighting ferociously. On this occasion a stranger stood watching the fight. The people saw this as an opportunity to get an unbiased opinion and a possible solution to their ongoing problem. He was asked if he could suggest what could be done to put an end to this unusual state of affairs.

The stranger smiled and said “It’s not so unusual really. Haven’t you noticed? There are entire countries out there doing exactly the same thing!”