Author: Alexander Fawn

Morris was only really killing time when he met the girl selling capsules.

He had arrived in town much too early for his interview. He was turning over a new leaf. He recently lost his last job through constant lateness and one morning had turned up late again for the last time, and had been told not to come back. He had never been a good time-keeper but the sacking had shaken him up. This was the reason for him being more than an hour early and following the sound of the fair.

After strolling through the stalls and rides aimlessly for a while, his eye was caught by a grubby-looking caravan drawn up at the back of the fairground. It looked kind of isolated, with nobody going near it or taking much notice of it, despite the fact that the grounds were bustling with people. There was something curious about it. Morris looked at his watch, he had time.

The door was hanging slightly open and he began to doubt whether he should be there. He climbed a couple of steps and tentatively pulled the door open. The interior was well lit and almost completely white.

A girl sat behind an enormous desk covered with plastic trays, each containing little blue capsules. She was very thin, with plastic features and completely bald. She was wearing a white trouser suit, zipped up to the chin. In a strange way she was attractive.

As he entered she looked up from what appeared to be some kind of tablet screen and said, “Hello, how can I help you?”

Morris looked around, then along the display of capsules. He looked up at the girl, who had gone back to her screen. “Unusual set up, I must say. Do you come with the fair?”

“No. Not really.”

“Ah! But you travel around from place to place I guess; this being a caravan, I mean.”

“Oh! Yes. From place to place, but never the same place twice.”

“Just fairgrounds?”

“Mainly fairgrounds, yes.”

“But surely, there are only so many. You would run out sooner or later?”

“No. We move to other cities; other countries.”

Morris looked surprised and said “Other countries?”

“Yes, other countries.” She went back to her screen.

“No vehicle I see.”

She looked up “Vehicle?”

“You know, a Jeep or something, to pull it I mean.”

She shook her head, “We don’t use one.”

He frowned and looked around the interior again. “If you don’t mind me saying, this is quite a set up for someone as young as you to be in charge of.”

She raised one hairless eyebrow. “You wouldn’t believe how long I’ve been nineteen.”

“Oh? How long would that be?”

The girl almost smiled. “Like I said. You wouldn’t believe me.” She put her tablet down. “As I said before, how can I help you?”

“Well, it does depend on what you’re selling in here.”

“Time.” Came the enigmatic reply. “Please feel free to browse.”

Browse didn’t seem the right word somehow, since all he could see was lots of tiny blue capsules, oblong and no bigger than a small fingernail. He was beginning to think the whole thing was some sort of joke and looked around for hidden cameras.

“Oh! I see, you’re selling time are you?”

Before she could answer the door swung open and three teenage boys trudged in sniggering and whispering to each other.”

“There you are, told you it was open, I saw this dude come in here” said the oldest boy; who was obviously the ring-leader. He grinned at Morris. When he saw the girl he paused before saying. “Hey guys, check this weird chick out will yer?”

Morris stood back to let the boy go forward and pick up a couple of capsules. “What are these?” he demanded, doing his best to impress his mates.

“I don’t think you’d be interested” said the girl, and went back to her screen.

The boy was embarrassed and said in an angry voice “Hey girly, I asked you a question.” He looked at Morris. Morris said nothing. He repeated “Come on, what the hell are these stupid things?” He held them up.

The girl stiffened. “They are ten-minute time capsules. They are placed under the tongue, they dissolve very quickly. Are you going to buy those?”

The boy scoffed. “Under the tongue, yeh, right.” With that he made a show of dropping them on the floor and treading on them. “Come on guys, this bird is a whack job. Let’s…” He was cut short by a ring on his mobile. He saw the caller ID and answered it. “Yes Mum, what’s up?” There was a long pause. “But you said…” Another pause. “But you said we could stay until five and we’ve only just got here. OK! OK! I’m coming!” He looked at his mates and said “Sorry.” They both groaned. He kicked the door open and they left.

Morris said “Wow! That was impressive. So, I take it from that little charade you not only give it, you can take it away.”

She nodded.

“How much did he lose?”

She tilted her head to one side. “Difficult to be accurate but around two hours.”

Morris checked the time, no rush he thought. “How much are they?” he asked.

“Five dollars each.”

He pulled out his wallet. “OK. I’ll take six. You just never know when the odd hour’s going to come in handy.”

Doris was an avid story listener.

She regularly plugged herself in to her latest book.

It was a great pastime and she would often become thoroughly engrossed in the stories being told. For this reason, she would listen every chance she got, from the time she left home to the time she arrived at the shop. Then, after the day, she would listen all the way home. She worked behind the counter of a top-draw jewellery shop in the city.

There were times when it would be quiet for long periods and she could discreetly use just one earplug to keep the story going. She made sure this didn’t impinge on her duties. She had been there for several years and was careful to keep the job that she enjoyed.

She was very fond of thrillers, stories that would keep her guessing, stories with lots of twists and turns.

On this particular occasion she was well into a chase sequence between two men running a money lending syndicate, trying to track down a potential victim in the form of an innocent young woman who had accidently witnessed something that has put her in danger. Although Doris had heard such scenarios many times before, it didn’t lessen either her enjoyment of it, or her becoming fully immersed in the plot.

As soon as she was out on the street the earplugs when in.

The woman in the story, Betty, was now running. If she could only make it to the underground station without being spotted, she could catch a train and be well clear of the criminals with little chance of them being able to track her down further.

As Betty entered the crowded entrance to the station she looked over her shoulder to see whether the two men were there when she collided with a man coming out. His briefcase caught her on the knee and sent a shot of burning pain up her leg. She hurried on, limping now, but she had to get out of sight as quickly as possible.

Once Betty was down on the platform, she hobbled to the quiet end of the platform and found a seat, where she could watch the passengers coming down the escalator. She was exhausted. Had she given them the slip? She didn’t know. Her leg hurt. She sat waiting nervously for the train. It seemed to be taking a long time to arrive. She waited and waited…

Doris’s head bounced. She slowly opened her eyes and looked up. She was sitting at the end of the platform in an underground railway station, out of breath… and rubbing her sore knee!

Yesterday he had stood on the balcony with his eyes closed.

She had only been gone three or four days, but the time had been drawn out for him, painfully. The recording of their final blazing row had not stopped replaying in his head. He could see that there was nothing left for him. It had all been blown away with the slamming of the front door.

He gripped the rail and leaned further forward. Eyes still shut, he let out a slow breath… and toppled.

The surgeon was telling her that the operation went as well as could be expected but the brain damage was extensive. In his view, it was remarkable that he had survived the fall.

“I have to tell you,” he went on, “that these cases commonly result in permanent memory loss; the patient literally has to start again as it were. The scans we have taken indicate that he will almost certainly suffer from what is known as Retrograde Amnesia; resulting in a loss of those recent memories prior to the trauma.”

He pointed the way. “Shall we?” As they walked along the corridor he said, “The police are treating it as an attempted suicide, but they’re not ruling out the possibility that it was an accident; apparently, there were no witnesses.” As they entered the ward he dropped his voice and said, “I should warn you, he may not know you. I’ll leave you to it then.” He turned and went back up the hallway.

She suddenly felt very alone and more than a little nervous. After a few paces she saw him. She went forward with the best smile she could muster.

His head turned on the pillow as she approached. “Justin, you poor thing, how are you?”

He frowned and said “Who are you?”

“Rosie. I’m Rosie your girlfriend. Don’t you remember?”

A sudden change came over him. He wriggled around and sat up straighter. With a big smile on his face, the smile she had always loved, he winked and said “I don’t think I would forget a looker like you!”

Her tears welled, as she realised that they had been given a second chance.

We have a tree; it’s plain to see.

It stands aloof at the front.

It’s old, but healthy, just like me,

But its upkeep makes me grunt.

–

Leaves and twigs come tumbling down

With only the slightest breeze.

It’s a basket case! But with a saving grace;

My innate love of trees.

–

It has stood throughout the seasons

Giving shade and looking grand.

In truth, its stance is a work of art,

As it holds its steadfast stand.

–

There must be a host of tiny creatures

Nestling in its bark and leaves;

Weathering all, from a blustering storm

To a gentle evening breeze.

–

Hardly a day passes by

Without things that flutter and drop.

And the lawn gets dappled with all manner of stuff,

And it’s really not likely to stop.

So, while stooping and bending and gathering bits up,

My admiration still remains.

While tending this wonder of nature,

My true love for a tree never wanes.

This was not going to be a good day for Cindy.

It was an accident; surely they would understand that. Well, Mrs Rogers probably wouldn’t, she could get very angry sometimes. Betty would understand, she and Betty had got on from the time they had first met; they just sort of hit it off from the word go.

She stood looking down at the pieces, little white fragments with patches of blue. The noise it made when it hit the floor was terrible. She kept hearing that sound in her head. But this really was an accident. It could have happened to anybody.

She found herself wandering from room to room, waiting for them to get back from the shops. Strictly speaking, she wasn’t allowed in the front room when they were out, but the door had been open and Cindy had gone in just to have a look around.

She was sitting in the armchair when she heard the car pull into the driveway. This was it; there was no getting around it. Betty would understand. She went to the window and watched them taking bags out of the car. She heard the front door go. She heard Betty yelling “Cindy, we’re home” from the hall.

Cindy didn’t go through to welcome them home the way she normally did. She just stood in the room next to the scattered pieces and waited.

The door was pushed fully open and Mrs Rogers came in. When she saw what had happened she just stood, wide-eyed, with her hand over her mouth. Cindy thought she looked kind of funny.

“Oh! No! Just look at this will you?” she cried.

Betty came in asking, “What is it Mum?”

“Look, Grandma’s blue Willow mug” she cried. “How did she get in here?” pointing at Cindy.

Betty went over and picked her up. “It was an accident Mum, she didn’t mean it”.

She knew Betty would understand. She had always loved her, from the time she was a little kitten she had loved her.

George Smart woke late.

He stared across at the clock’s numbers, realising he would have to hurry if he wanted to catch his usual bus. George didn’t like hurrying. He didn’t like being late.

It had been just one more night of tossing and turning; an event all too common with him and he could see no obvious way of fixing it. He mulled it over as he shaved. Maybe it was those images; he knew they disturbed him. Well that was natural wasn’t it? Dead bodies lying in the streets, buildings turned to rubble, smoke rising up out of shattered cities, towns and villages…

He had considered what he thought was a silly notion – just avoiding the TV news in the evening, but that didn’t make sense. That would just be burying his head in the sand, wouldn’t it?

He locked the door of his tiny apartment. Since he was single now, his home was small but it suited him very well. He reflected on how much it really did suit him as he made his way to the main road. It was just such a pity that he could not enjoy decent sleeps in his little haven. His single bed was actually very comfortable.

The traffic seemed unusually heavy this morning. As he reached his stop, he was shaken by the sudden roaring of a car engine, accelerating towards the far cross-roads. He stopped and watched it speeding towards the lights, which had just turned red. It got faster and faster, and then slammed on its brakes.

George just stood and stared. He didn’t move. One or two fellow travellers walked past him and said something, but he didn’t hear what they said. He was transfixed. He was having an epiphany…

George missed his bus and had to wait for the next one. It didn’t bother him, as it gave him time to take in the full meaning of what he had witnessed. This was the answer; but he was trying to work out exactly what it was the answer to. He knew it meant something really important to him. If he could only figure it out… His bus came and he managed to come out of his trance long enough to climb on.

The ride was only a few minutes, but it was time enough for him to see and figure out that the car, rushing towards that red light the way it did when the traffic lights were clearly red, said it all. It had shown George what was going on in the world; what people were doing, why those buildings were falling down with bodies scattered in the streets. Would anybody else see what he sees? Would it make any sense to others?

He was a little nervous now as he got off and made his way to the office. How would the people in the office take it? Although he was smart enough to know that his fellow workers and a small group of friends saw him as a quiet person of sober habits and a simple life style, how would they take to being told what he had just this minute discovered? Would he lose friends or respect in the workplace?

It didn’t matter! It didn’t matter at all; there was no way he wasn’t going to tell anybody that would listen. He knew what people were doing; he could see what was happening in the world. He had to tell people, he couldn’t keep it to himself.

He spent the day convincing others that he had seen something that meant, well something… It was hard at first, but after talking to three or four of his fellow colleagues he got into the stride of it. By the end of the day those around him were beginning to give him funny looks, occasionally he had caught people smiling and winking at each other, but he had always been generally liked and such an easy person to get along with that nobody really took too much notice of his ramblings.

That evening he watched the news. It was there, the same, the buildings, the bodies and the smoke. But he knew why. He suddenly realised that he was watching it, and he was almost OK with it all, because he knew why it was happening. He could see what was happening in the world; were people were going, were they were heading – were everybody was heading!

That night George slept well.

They came out of the cinema and stood for a moment, deciding on which café to head for.

A few minutes later they sat nursing cups of coffee, pulling the movie apart. They didn’t do this very often and they both enjoyed the catch up. Ellie and Naomi had been at school together a decade earlier. Ellie was now at University, while Naomi was studying hairdressing. Although it was rare that they got together, it was always good when they did. After discussing the merits or otherwise of the film, they settled down to personal chit-chat.

Naomi said “Somebody told me your Dad writes stories, is that right? He should publish.”

Ellie smiled.

Naomi said “What?”

“He doesn’t write to sell them, he writes them, well… because he likes to write them, I guess.”

“Does he make any money at it?”

Ellie nearly chokes on her coffee, “Sorry, No, not really. If you knew my Dad, you’d understand. It’s not what he wants to do. He’s not interested in making money out of them, he’s only interested in writing them.” She leant forward. “He published a book once you know.”

“Did he?”

“Yes; but he doesn’t like to publicise the fact.”

“Did he sell many books?”

“Well, he doesn’t really know. He’s got access to a website where he can see whose buying things. He never looks at it. You’ve got to sell quite a lot of books before you get any royalties coming through. He’s never had any of those as far as I know.”

Naomi frowned. “Why did he publish it?”

“I think he was under quite a bit of pressure. You know, people kept telling him he should publish. I think in the end he did it to shut them up. He told me once that from that point of view it worked. He also said that over a number of months there was a lot of work involved in actually getting a book published… said he wouldn’t do it again.”

“So, he just writes for writings sake?”

“Yeh, much like me and my jewellery I suppose. I don’t make the stuff to sell. I just like making it. When I think of it, I am really enjoying my studies and seem to be getting good grades, I think the two things go hand in hand. You like the work you do, don’t you.”

“Oh! Yes.” Came the instant reply.

Ellie looked pleased with herself. “Well, there you go then.” she said. “I think we’ve established a pretty firm principle there don’t you? You can never make a good job of something if you are under duress.”

Naomi nodded.

She never found out what it was she was meant to look at.

She was tired; they both were. It had been a long day. The birthday party had been a lot of fun; great for the kids. Her seven year old had swelled with pride when he handed over his school-friend’s present. He had saved up for months to buy it. He was slumped in the passenger’s seat now, staring sleepily at the road ahead.

It had rained earlier, leaving the roads shiny. It was getting dark and she switched on the lights.

Out of the blue, he shouted “Mum, look at that!” pointing through his side window. When she glanced across she saw nothing of interest, just shops.

Before she could focus on anything the whole world stopped with a deafening explosion.

The car was still. Somewhere there was a hissing sound and the lights of another vehicle were blinking orange, lighting up the car’s interior. She saw what had been done to her son. She had never been firm enough with him about wearing his seat belt properly.

She sat back with her eyes closed, aware of the warm trickle running down her face.

Just before she let out one slow and final breath, she murmured softly.

“Look at what dear?”

Innocence and purity dress in white.

Although, a bright white light, can give quite a fright.

Both power and submission are clothed in black;

Or the colour of an eye, with a large ice pack.

–

Passion and excitement are clothed in red,

Like the colour of cheeks, when something rude is said.

Loyalty and calmness appear in blue.

So does a tradesman’s language, when a screw goes askew.

–

Timelessness comes all wrapped in grey,

But it’s the colour of the sky, on judgment day.

Reliability and Sadness show through in brown,

Just like the oil on a driveway, when a gasket breaks down.

–

Nature and jealousy both wear green,

Like the scunge the builds up in a washing machine.

Romance and happiness come in pink,

Although old pink socks can really stink.

–

Emotions are evoked by colour, we know;

With emotional responses running to and fro.

Positive and negative impressions abound,

With lots of tests and studies going around.

–

They can test for colour deficiency,

Study receptors in the eyes,

Examine the chromatic plates

Wherein a problem lies.

–

But, when it comes right down to it,

With ten thousand different hues.

Despite sound colour psychology,

Do we see just what we choose?

Whether it’s trying to find socks that match

Or a ripe orange by its rind.

Too much intense looking

Can send you colour blind!

Jeremy sat with his head in his hands, putting it simply, he had been very rude to his friend. His old friend.

“Listen.” He had said. “I’ve got better things to do with my time than e-mail a bunch of maladjusted morons, who find it easier to talk to a screen than a human being.”

He had flapped his hand, saying “just… just close the door behind you.” His friend left the office without speaking.

This was it. This was the breaking point. He had known Tom most of his life, and he didn’t deserve to be treated like that. He needed help.

The surgery could get him in for a late appointment Friday. He took it. He hadn’t seen Doctor Doherty for several years, despite being on his books since he was a kid. It was a pity really. He had always liked him. He enjoyed the old man’s friendly and steady paternalism, his deep-seated kindliness.

He was politely asked to sit and state his business.

Jeremy felt a sudden jolt at the idea that he would have to put things into words. He mumbled a little then blurted out “I just want to cry all the time, I… I think I need help.”

“Good. Good” said the old doctor, as he started shuffling paper work, eventually producing a bulging manila envelope. “It’s Mr. Ross, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Ross”

“Just relax for a moment while I…” He trailed off while continuing to examine a number of papers.

From where he sat, Jeremy could see out of the window, across the car park, to a row of large yellow bins. He wondered what was in them. Not just stacks of paper, he thought. No, probably bloodied and bent hypodermic needles, soiled dressings, incontinence pads, the odd scabby… something or other. He shook his head. Bins nowadays put him in mind of his own inevitable decay; his inexorable slide into old age and senility. God! He needed help.

“Let’s have a look at you then, shall we?”

The doctor looked Jeremy up and down as if he could divine the root of his problems by a cursory appraisal of his general state of being.

“Just slip off your jacket.”

As Jeremy slid out of his jacket, Doctor Doherty watched him closely, his brows knitted slightly, his head a little set to one side. Jeremy waited as Doherty continued to stare.

“You’re thirty…six?” Doherty stood by Jeremy’s envelope on the desk and read long-sightedly from it.

“Yes.”

“Do you drink?”

“Of course.”

“How much do you drink?”

“Oh… two or three beers, twice a week maybe.”

“Smoke?”

“No, I’ve given up.”

Doherty smiled wearily. “Drugs?”

“A bit.”

“Cannabis, heroin… cocaine?”

“Cannabis.”

”Roll up your sleeve.”

Jeremy revealed his forearm. Doherty leaned forward and slipped a black cuff up his arm.

“How long have you felt this…depression?” Doherty inflated the sleeve and watched the pressure gauge.

“I don’t think it is depression.”

“No?”

Air hissed from the machine.

“That seems fine. You say you’re not depressed?”

“No. It’s sadness. I know there’s a distinction; probably sounds a bit…”

“Undo your shirt.”

Jeremy obliged. “… a bit unusual. But I think it’s more of a general world-weariness than depression.”

“I see.”

“Yes, it’s…”

“Quiet please.” Doherty listened to Jeremy’s heart. “Thank you.”

“More a sort of existential…”

“Yes, well I can hardly treat you for…”

“Oh! No, of course not. I wouldn’t expect you to.”

Jeremy rested his elbow on the desk and leaned his chin on his hand. “Listen, can I tell you about a dream I had last night?”

“Please do.” Doherty sat back and began tapping his fingertips together.

“It was, I don’t know, evening I suppose. And I was walking along the top of a sea wall, on my own. It was very narrow and I was having a job keeping my balance. Anyway, suddenly I was confronted by a tower; well, more like a mountain really. It seemed to be made of paper; well not paper as in paper Mache, but stacks of paper.”

Jeremy sighed. “It was huge, like a mountain. I knew what it was because I had seen it before. No, not seen it; dreamt it. The truth is I’ve been having this dream a lot lately …always the same. As I get closer to it, it starts to move, just trembling at first, as if some awesome power was waking it in some way.”

Jeremy’s glazed eyes refocused across the desk. Doherty was nodding softly. He waved for him to go on.

“Well, the next thing is it teeters and comes crashing down on me… and I pass out.”

“Yes.” Doherty said, slipping Jeremy’s envelope back into his pile. “So, sadness you say; strange dreams and a propensity towards tears?”

“Are you married? Remind me.”

“Christ, no. I mean I was. But I’m not now.”

“Separated?”

“Divorced.”

“And your job. You’re working are you?”

“Yes.”

“That’s right. I remember. Some sort of Office Manager, am I right?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, well that may explain it then.”

“Might it?”

Doherty leaned forward. “Have any trouble with emails do you?”

Jeremy’s eyes started to fill with tears. “Oh! God! Yes… emails…” he whispered.

Doherty smiled. “It’s all about change, do you see. It’s about the invisible revolution… the arrival of the market economy. It’s no different I imagine, from what’s happened to those of us working in the Health Industry. Free-floating anxiety, that sort of thing, is it?”

“Absolutely, but I never imagined that natural progress could have anything to do with it. I mean you get used to change, don’t you?”

Doherty chuckled. He glanced at the clock and opened a large desk diary and rocked backwards and forwards until he fixed the focal length of his eyesight on the page.

“I’d like to see you again Jeremy, now we seem to have hit on the nub of it. Just to see how you are getting on. I’m afraid we have something of a waiting list. You’re not intending suicide are you?” He didn’t look up.

“Not immediately, no.” Jeremy grinned.

The doctor sat back and smiled. “This is not uncommon you know. Sadness is not necessarily a bad thing to feel. Believe me. Sadness, if you identify it correctly, is not going to do you any harm. It may even help, if you can identify just what it is that makes you sad. Sounds rather simple doesn’t it? But it really is as simple as that.”

“Emails”, Jeremy muttered again, and started crying. “That’s it! Bloody emails.”

He sat sobbing for a minute or so, then finally looked up at the old doctor with an expression of serine admiration. Jeremy wanted to take him home, put him in an armchair by a raging fire, make him a milky drink and fetch his slippers…