Author: Alexander Fawn

The boy was telling his friend how upset his younger sister was.

He was saying, “She calls it ‘tiger’ because of its markings. Got out three nights ago. Poor kid won’t stop crying. Mum and Dad have gone out with her several times looking for it, knocking on doors, asking the neighbours.”

His friend said, “Sounds like you need the Finder.”

“Who?”

“The Finder. The old guy at 43, a couple of streets over. You know, the old man who lives on his own in that old house. He’s quite famous apparently. Reckons he can find anything. Charges a lot, but from what I’ve heard he seems to give customer satisfaction.”

“OK. I’ll check it out on the way to the bus stop.”

Later, when he left, he found number 43. Outside, there was a sign, saying ‘Finder – expert at tracking down the missing.’

He went up and knocked. The door opened. The old man just looked at him and grunted.

The boy began, “It’s my sister, she’s…”

“Missing, eh?”

“No, not her, her cat.”

“Ah! Not good.”

“No?”

“No. They can be vicious, you know.”

“Vicious?”

“Well, you wouldn’t know. When you’ve been tracking these beasts down as long as I have, you’d know how nasty they can be.”

“But it’s only a kitten!”

“Don’t kid yourself, they can be pretty nasty. Do you want it killed?”

“Of course not! It’s my sister’s pet.”

“OK. Bringing them in alive costs extra.”

“Ehm…”

“Got a photo?”

“Not sure. I’ll have to go home and check, thanks.”

He walked away slowly, resisting the impulse to run.

He bought the painting at a second hand shop, just because he liked it.

When he hung it up at home he realised that it was the only oil painting in the house. It was a portrait of a female actress that he was an avid fan of when he’d been a young man at college. She would have to have been his favourite movie celebrity. She was beautiful, no other word for it. It was a fine painting. The moment he saw it, he recognised her. He wondered who could have painted it and asked the shop owner. The rather weird old man had just smiled and said he had no idea and neither of them could find a signature. This fact had piqued his interest even more. He surprised himself at the time by asking the price, and he actually ended up buying it. He supposed that since living alone he spent a lot of his time with memories. This painting represented a very happy time in his early life and he had no regrets about buying it.

It was only a few weeks after hanging it that he detected something different about the woman’s features. It was only subtle, but he was convinced he was not imagining it. He wondered whether it was something to do with the painting’s different environment, perhaps the light, or the humidity. Could such things bring about a change in the appearance of oil on canvass in this way? That can’t be right. When he thought about it, he had often seen this form of art in galleries that date back centuries. Whatever it was, it was a disappointment. As time went on he was only just aware of his lack of interest in it. He would barely glance at it as he passed. This was the case until he happened to notice that the frame was slightly crooked. He had stopped momentarily to straighten it when he found himself staring at the film star.

The colour had faded from her cheeks and her complexion was becoming pale, with a hint of yellow. It was this incident that had him wondering about her life after entertaining audiences all that time ago. When he looked into it he found that her stardom was short-lived. After her fourth film she had become ill. The different internet sites he looked at had varying versions about what she had suffered from.

Apparently both jaundice, which would explain the colour, and dropsy were involved. The dropsy, or edema as it was later called, affected her face to the degree that she was no longer seen in public. He found all of this information most upsetting. It was an awful shame that such an illness should take hold of such a beautiful woman; his old heartthrob. He stood looking at the picture. He now found it quite disturbing. He had no intention of watching how this goddess changed during her final years. He would remember her as she was back then.

A short time later saw him at the back corner of his garden standing in front of his old oil drum incinerator. He tried not to look at her face as he tipped in the last of the petrol. With a sigh, he struck and threw in a match. With a heavy sigh, he turned away determined to allow the flames to eradicate what he had learnt from his mind.

Returning to the house, he felt sure it was working.

As a lad, he always wanted to be a hobo.

All kids have fads. In his young mind he saw the life of a tramp as a life where the world was open to you, to go wherever you liked and whenever you liked. Nobody told you what to do or when to do it. The freedom of the open road and the choice of places you could visit was awesome. Whenever he played dress ups with his friends he always put on his old, tattered jacket and worn-out trousers, and the scruffy trainers that his mother was always trying to get him to throw out. He would see tramps whenever he went to the city, shopping with his mother. Sometimes people would give them money, he thought that was pretty amazing!

However, this highly romanticized idea of what a vagrant’s life was all about began to fade when the killings started. It was on television and in the papers. There was a serial killer at work. Homeless people were being murdered. He was taunting the police with messages about how he was doing the community a service by getting rid of them. His attitude was that such people were a blight on society. There was a lot of talk about it. The whole thing got a lot worse, particularly for the boy, when the news reports said that the police suspected that the murders were being carried out by one of their own. In other words, it was a tramp killing tramps.

It was around this time that the boy’s attention was drawn to second-hand car salesman.

It was one of the few places in the city where she could just sit and think.

She was never much of an art lover, but the gallery was peaceful and nobody bothered you. Not even if you were quietly crying to yourself, sobbing into a tissue. How could she have got it all so wrong? She had always imagined it would be wonderful to start a family, but not like this. It was an overseas holiday. She would probably never see him again. It was quite deliberate that she still held the plastic test stick in her hand. It needed to be there, speaking to her, shouting at her. For her, there was no embarrassment. It represented the awful impact of it. From that moment in the cubicle, back in the office toilet, at the beginning of her lunch break, until now.

She pulled off another tissue. On reflection, this had been the way of it her entire life. It was as though she was now looking back at a couple of decades of cause and effect. She saw it clearly, probably for the first time; yes clearly, she was always the effect. She had never really caused anything! Her life was a constant stream of things that had happened to her. Did it all start with the bullying at school? Who knows? Never the cause, always the affect.

When she finally dabbed her eyes and looked up, the image that hung facing her was Picasso’s ‘Weeping Woman’; it was entirely appropriate. It was somehow solid proof that what she was about to do would break the spell, break the rut she had been in for so long. It would all change now. She alone would be the cause, and with this one decisive action would allow her future to turn on a point, and she would be changed. It really didn’t matter whether anyone understood or not; understood what was happening to her.

The art piece in question had been stolen from the gallery some three decades earlier, before she was born. She read somewhere it had been returned on a tip off and the case was never solved. She stopped in front of it and burst into tears. Falling forward, she grabbed at the frame to support herself. A siren began to shriek and in no time she was surrounded by uniformed staff.

It took some time for the uproar to die down. All those around her seemed to be greatly affected by the whole incident, and when they saw the little stick in her hand, they were all very kind. They brought her hot tea in a paper cup.

And now, she was young and healthy. She would go out there… and cause things…

This will surely get his attention, she thought, gazing into the mirror.

The hair salon was certainly expensive, but she needed to make an impact. His lack of attention had always annoyed her, but it had become worse of late. At times she felt that he looked right through her. He would come home from work and greet her with a faraway look, almost as though she wasn’t there. But this, this new look being so radically different, it’s sure to have the desired effect. After all, it was quite different to any hairstyle she’d ever had before. She would put her new dress on and greet him at the door, before he went up to get changed. She was feeling quite giddy at the prospect and sat smiling at herself for a few beats before getting up.

When his key turned in the front door her heart gave a positive flutter.

She stood at the bottom of the stairs, watching the door open. She made an effort to look casual, without taking on a pose. His greeting was the usual one.

“Hello, dear.”

She held her ground. “Was your day all right?” she said, patting her hair gently.

“Same as usual,” he said, closing the door without looking at her.

She swivelled her head a couple of times as he approached. “What do you think, do you like it?”

“Like it?” he asked, loosening his tie.

“Yes. Do you like it?”

“Sorry, dear, like what?”

“My hair, do you like it?”

He managed a brief smile. “Yes, I like it when you wear it like that,” he said, as he climbed the stairs.

She watched him go, until he was out of sight. She stood motionless for some time before going into the kitchen.

When he came down he found her standing at the sink with the door to the cupboard underneath open.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

She turned, looking a little helpless. “I think there’s a leak,” she said, pointing down.

He sighed. “I’ll have a look,” he mumbled, going to the sink and crouching down. He peered under the sink. “I can’t see any problem under here,” he said in a muffled voice.

As he brought his head out she picked up the rolling pin.

Inattention has its limits.

There had been a number of burglaries in the neighbourhood in recent weeks.

She, like so many others she had spoken to, was very nervous. It seemed that this particular criminal was brazen. He or she, after all some of them are women, has been robbing houses while the owners were in watching TV. The police were getting a lot of complaints about their lack of progress. They, in turn, were not happy with the public arming themselves.

She had been on edge ever since it started, while her husband made little of it, saying the locks he had installed would prevent them from ever becoming victims. He was a good sort really, he just didn’t realise how tense she had become. She felt sure that his shrugging it off was partly on account of the fact that he was working so late most nights. She knew he was doing his best to bring in a little more money, but this meant that he was hardly ever around during the evening. As a result, she was at home on her own and that didn’t help.

It was very late when he finally got home and she had been hearing noises all through the evening. Knowing she’d be asleep at this time, he planned to have a quick shower to wash away the whiff of whiskey and perfume. He was halfway to the bathroom when the hall light came on. He stopped, peering around in the glare of the light. She was standing by the front door holding her late father’s shotgun.

“It’s you!” she cried. “What’s got into you? You could have been shot creeping in like that.” She lowered the gun. “Where are you going?”

“Oh! I just need to clean up a bit.”

“Clean up?” She sniffed. She sniffed again. She walked forward a few paces, taking in the distinctive odours. She began to think about all the evenings she’d been alone in the house while he was supposed to be working late. She slowly brought the gun back up. “You could be a burglar,” she said.

“Don’t be silly.”

“But, you could you know.”

“What are you talking about?”

Her eyes blazed and she glowered at him with a peculiar grin. “I think you’re a burglar. Yes, I’m quite convinced about that. That is what you are. You have broken in and I’ve caught you.” She giggled. “I’ll be famous for stopping you in your tracks.”

He went to speak, but froze as the barrel was lifted a little more.

The blast was deafening.

She switched the light off and ran out into the street, screaming.

He was a great believer in the power of prayer.

He was always praying and asking for help with one thing or another. He was very devout in his praying. This is in no way surprising because it was often the case that early, rural man spent an awful lot of time praying. These appeals were proffered for things like rain, good fortune or forgiveness. This took place at a time unknown, but probably quite recently. In fact, at the time, whenever it was, just about everybody spent an awful lot of time praying for just about everything. It was simply the thing to do.

Now, it came to pass that the plug went missing from the sink out back. Looking around, he found that the goat had it between its teeth and was gnawing on it. As he watched, it disappeared with a gulp. As we all know, goats will happily eat anything. Anyway, this meant he could no longer fill the basin with water. He would have to pray. Unsurprisingly, at this point he returned to his dwelling, whatever that might be, in order to pick up the holy book, when he was suddenly struck by a thought. He rummaged through the rubbish and found a container top that exactly fitted the plughole. Laying a small scrap of plastic wrapping paper over the plughole he pushed the top in. In this way, he was able to fill the sink.

This will hold, he thought, until he could replace it with a proper plug.

Now, you may well ask, what did he learn from this incident? The answer being… absolutely nothing.

In fact, feeling that he had somehow robbed the almighty of the opportunity to miraculously fix the problem, he mumbled to himself, “I hope He doesn’t take offence.”

The town was small, small enough to feel like a village.

And yes, you’re right, everybody really did know everybody else’s business, and a lot of the time, their personal affairs. It’s probably best if people’s names are kept out of this narrative. The situation was fairly straight forward. The salesman that worked in the car yard was very much the type of man who liked to keep himself to himself. Despite this, it would be completely obvious to just about any old bystander that for a number of years he’d been infatuated with the woman that managed the only ladies hair salon in town. She had built her business up to a point where she had a regular customer base. It just so happened that for some considerable time she’d been engaged to the local dentist, who just happened to be the brother of the car salesman. The salesman had never shared his feelings for the owner of the salon, with the single exception of the barman at the golf club.

In fact, the salesman, who as stated was really quite shy, would clumsily try to give the impression that he had lots of girlfriends. Bragging about these was his attempt to cover up the fact that he was in love with the hairdresser. Not many people were taken in by this act, except the barman, who had his doubts about the salesman, ever since they were at school together and the man who sold cars was just a little too keen to dress up and play the part of Tinkerbell, the fairy from the magic wood, in the school play.

One may very well ask, was this a really complex love triangle?

Apparently not. The story ends when the car salesman, the lady who ran the hairdressers and the dentist, all got together one evening in the bar of the local golf club, where they had an open discussion, carried out in a manner the was both mature and polite that fixed the whole thing up!

The barman had nothing to do with it.

The café was busy; they sat at a corner table.

She switched her phone off, looked around and sighed. “I think we should move on, don’t you?”

He looked up from staring into his cup and smiled. “Yeah, I’m glad you brought it up. I have to say I’m more than tired of watching you forever playing with your phone. While we’re at it, you’re always fiddling with your hair. You bite your fingernails and talk with your mouth full. I should add that you’re just too fond of passing on gossip, whether true or false. I hate it when you crack your knuckles and you’re forever chewing on sweets. You’re a bit too fond of finishing my sentences for me. I hate watching you while you’re fixing your makeup in public. You’re never on time for a date and you can’t stop fidgeting when we’re in the cinema. You do too much window shopping for my liking and you spend too much on lottery tickets. I find it pretty creepy the way you’re continually looking for scabs to pick at. I find it boring when you go on about soap operas. You so often put things off and do a lot of unnecessary penny pinching. You’re too fond of name dropping, and have a habit of repeatedly saying ‘whatever’. And I really hate the way you keep clearing your throat.”

She sat shaking her head. “I meant… it’s getting noisy in here, can we go somewhere else.” She sighed again and raised her eyebrows. “But I think you’re right. From my point of view, you certainly complain a hell of a lot.”

They smiled at each other. It was a strange smile, but it was a smile nevertheless.

The boy was a genius, but as a result, he was always being teased.

School boys and girls alike, sniggered and made jokes behind his back. He was sick of it… really sick of it. It just didn’t stop!

One morning, when the teacher had been writing mathematical formulas on the blackboard, he had been called away. When he was gone, the nastiest child in the classroom, asked the boy genius to mathematically prove the existence of infinity.

At this, the boy went to the supply cupboard next to the blackboard and found a large piece of blue chalk. He came out and drew a huge arrow on the board, pointing right. He then walked to the classroom door and marked it in the same way, with an arrow, pointing right. Then he moved clockwise to the next wall and drew another, pointing right, beneath the window. He repeated this on the last wall, next to a set of shelves. Then, on the floor, in front of the open cupboard, he placed a final arrow, pointing towards the cupboard. At this point, he entered the tiny cupboard and closed the door behind him.

The room fell silent.

He was never to be seen again…