Author: Alexander Fawn

The man stood looking around the pottery gallery. He had found it more or less by accident, tucked away and off the main road, with only the smallest sign to say it was there.

He was admiring the quality of the work. The shelves and tables displayed beautifully crafted jugs and bowls; each piece had a unique and distinctive decoration. He could see the craftsmanship that had gone into the soft and elegant designs, with their swirling patterns of colour.

But what struck him most was the fact that there were barely twenty pieces on display! There was obviously room for a lot more. He started to think about what could be done with a business of this sort, and with such a high quality product. He eyed the man standing behind the counter flipping through a magazine. He had given no indication that he was even aware that he had a customer.

The visitor circled around a couple more times before deciding on a vase. He was sure his wife would like it. Apart from it being a real work of art, it was just the right shade of blue for the hall table. He approached the counter.

The owner looked up and smiled. “That one? I’ll wrap it for you.”

The man stood looking around the gallery while the owner found sheets of paper.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how long would it take you to make these?”

The other said, “No not at all, I suppose I spend two or three hours each evening.”

The visitor was amazed. “Really? So, you would produce two or three pieces in that time?”

“Well, mostly yes. Although it could be more on a good night; and it does depend a lot on what sort of items I’m working on.”

“I must say I’m impressed with the quality of the pieces you have on display here; quite beautiful.”

“Thanks.” The man carried on wrapping.

The buyer cleared his throat. “Look”, he began, “I’m a Business Analyst. I work in the city. I see enormous potential here. I mean, if you only spend a couple of hours a day making these pieces, what do you do with the rest of your time?”

The owner smiled and looked a little embarrassed. “Well, to be honest with you, I do like to sleep late.” He shrugged his shoulders and leaned forward on the counter contemplating the question. “Ï suppose, most of my mornings are taken up with walking. I often take long morning walks.” He scratched his head and looked past the visitor. He raised a finger. “Ï have a vegetable garden out the back and I get a kick out of pottering around out there.” He straightened up and ran his hands through his hair. “And I must admit… every chance I get I tend to spend time sitting, listening to classical music with a glass of wine.” He chuckled, and a broad smile lit up his face.

The other fanned his hands in a gesture of starting some sort of presentation.

“Look. Like I said, I’m a Business Analyst. I work in the city. Just consider for a moment. Why not put in more hours during the day? If you worked for eight hours a day, six days a week, you could produce five times the quantity of product. Then, with the additional sales you could advertise. You could take on staff to take on some of the work load. As I say, I’m a Business Analyst. I could write a Business Plan for you.”

He looked around the shop. “Why, in less than a decade you could have such a successful business that you could sell it off.”

“Hang on. If I did all that, what would I do with myself?”

“Well, that’s it you see. You could retire to a quiet spot in the country somewhere, take your early morning walks, grow vegetables, and sip wine while listening to classical music whenever you wanted.”

The owner raised his eyebrows.

The Business Analyst from the city paused. He reflected for a moment. His face coloured. He smiled awkwardly and said “Yes, well, I’ll just take the blue vase, thanks.”

Cynthia put the grocery bag down quickly as she entered. She spun around and slid the first bolt. She sighed. That first bolt was always the one that really did it for her. The sound of it clunking into place was music to her ears. The second was almost as good. It was a lot bigger. It too went home with a satisfying thud. Finally, now perspiring with the effort, she smacked the fifth and last bolt home.

The first floor lock was the tricky one, a thick steel rod that slid down through brackets into a metal keep in the floor. She had to get it just right. It was heavy and a very snug fit. She paused for a moment or two to catch her breath. The second was a lot easier, it fell silently several inches into the floor with a click.

She could relax now. She picked up her bag and went through to the kitchen to put shopping away and make a well-earned cup of tea.

What was she thinking? She hadn’t put the bar up.

She went back to the door.

Now this was the final lock; the latest one. Although, in fact, it had been several years since her dear Harold had created it for her. He said at the time that he didn’t think it was really necessary, but then Cynthia had said that it was always better to be safe than sorry. So, wonderful man that he was, he went down to the local scrap yard and found a metal bar that would do the job. When he had finished he told her, somewhat forcefully she thought, that she really wouldn’t be needing any more locks.

She smiled at the thought of how loving and patient her late husband was as she hefted the bar. It was all she could do to lift it and it was always a struggle getting it into the steel brackets mounted on either side of the door.

Suddenly, her wrist twisted and went weak and the bar turned diagonally. She found herself stepping back, with the bar coming after her. As she hit the floor she felt and heard something crack.

It was her hip, badly crushed. She couldn’t move. She didn’t have the strength to lift the bar that now pinned her to the floor. The excruciating pain that had started in her hip was now washing through her entire body. Her head had bounced heavily on the floor and she was losing consciousness.

The phone was a long way away. If she could reach it she could call for an ambulance. With extreme effort, she raised her head enough to look at the door. To get in, anybody would have to knock a hole in the wall!

Cynthia suddenly realised, she wouldn’t be needing any more locks.

Once upon a time, on a hot summer’s day, a princess rowed leisurely across the little pond in her royal grounds.

A large, green frog was sitting on a lily-pad in the middle of a sparkling pond watching her with great interest. As she glided past the lily-pad, the frog raised his head and called to her. “Kiss me,” called the frog, “upon my forehead, and I will turn into a handsome prince.”

“I think not,” replied the princess, noticing that it was quite wet beneath her fine slippers and wrinkling her nose with distain, “I rule my own kingdom thank you very much; I lead my own armies into battle and I make my own laws. I am, as they say, my own person. I need no prince, handsome or otherwise”. She dipped her oars and stared at the creature. With a whimsical smile she asked, “What else do you have to offer?”

“Then kiss me,” said the frog, “upon my forehead, and I will grant you great fortunes.”

“Oh! Sod that!” sneered the princess. “I maintain a strictly balanced budget with good economic growth and sensible interest rates”. She looked down at the water, now slopping around her feet. “Besides, your great riches would no doubt devalue my currency, send inflation soaring and cripple my Kingdom’s very reasonable current exchange rates. Is that the best you have to offer?”

“Alright, if you kiss me,” said the frog, getting a little miffed, “upon my forehead, I will grant you dazzling beauty.”

“How very flattering,” scoffed the princess, “I may be plain, but beauty does not last, whereas personality does!” She tossed her hair and giggled. “It’s personality that counts.”

The frog didn’t like being made fun of; or rejected when offering such wonderful gifts, especially when such things were being offered without any request for payment or return. “What the hell do you want then?” demanded the frog.

The princess paused and thought hard for the first time. After several moments she leaned closer to the pad and whispered, “I want to be happy.” She then lowered her head and kissed the frog upon his forehead.

The frog then saw the sadness in her eyes for the first time. “Well now”, he began, “You have refused love, riches and beauty; yet you seek happiness by kissing a frog!” He tilted his green head to one side. “Anybody might think this was some kind of fairy tale. May I ask; can you swim?”

“Eh! No; actually” she replied, looking down.

The frog went on, “If this was, in fact, a fairy story, traditionally those things being offered may well have been granted without delay. However, in the case of happiness, this is not an instant thing…” He seemed to tilt his great head again, as if pondering. “No. Happiness, and the getting of it, takes time; and by the look of the hole on the side of your boat and considering how much lower it is in the water, together with the distance from the closest bank, I would venture to say that time is one thing you are about to run out of!”

With that he hopped across the pad and dived into the deep, clear water. An environment in which he was, unlike the snooty princess, completely comfortable, and in the satisfying knowledge that anybody reading an account of these events would learn that it is not wise to be rude when talking to frogs.

Home for me and mine while this time lasts.

A soft, warm home of thick snug blankets;

Of times of food and candlelights,

And memories of our pasts.

–

This is home. A small, proud home.

Wherein, a neat array of pots and clothes

Show that those here care much, for what they use and own.

–

This home, that was so short a time ago, a roll of cloth,

Now stands tall and straight and firm.

And we inside know well,

That these white folds of treated wall

Are not just so much cloth at all,

But part of that which forms in all –

Our home.

She was the kind of girl who would go to parties, get drunk, and go home by taxi.

The student party would be a welcome distraction for her… she needed a distraction. There was too much going on in her life right now. Too many decisions to make. Too many choices. Her best friend had said she should give herself a break from it all. “Look, you should just let it all go” she said. “Just jump in the car; come over and chill out for a while.” So, that’s what she did.

When she arrived it was all in full swing. Some dozen or so were dancing to music inside, while a group of students were gathered around a small bonfire in the back garden. Her friend got up and hugged her saying “Jeromy’s here, pontificating as usual.”

“What’s he on about?”

“He’s saying that electrons are both particles and waves. It’s quantum mechanics… I think.”

Her friend poured her a large cocktail. “Here, I’ll leave the bottle with you. Remember, let it all go.” She hugged her again and went back inside.

She joined the group with nods and smiles. She found a spot and sat cross-legged sipping and listening. He was expounding on the double slit experiment. She listened with an uncertain fascination. Half an hour and half a bottle of vodka later she plucked up the courage to join in.

She suddenly piped up. “Are you saying that the wave creates this interference pattern, with the result being that the electron approaches the two slits and goes through both, is that what you’re saying?

Jeromy looked across, pleased that somebody was challenging and not just listening. He raised his eyebrows and grinned at her. “Yep. That is what I’m saying.”

Her head shook slowly. “Sorry, but that really is hard to believe.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“Sure I do.” He paused, then threw his hands up saying. “It gets a lot worse when you consider that whenever the electron is observed it only passes through one of the two slits, in the same way that a particle would.”

“Now you’ve really lost me” she said.

“It’s simple” he went on, “you could say that the wave signifies all possibilities. On the other hand, when the electron is observed it is seen to make a choice.”

“Choice?” she echoed.

“Sure, one slit or the other.”

“OK. Are you saying that when something is observed you think it has a choice?”

“Sure, one slit or the other.” he repeated.

The group went on discussing and occasionally arguing the merits of what Jeromy was preaching for quite some time, while she sat pondering the whole idea and steadily emptying the bottle. When the fire had burned out and the band broke up she staggered to her feet and immediately fell over.

They put her in a taxi.

All the way home she was wondering, was she a wave or a particle?

She looked up to find the driver peering at her in the mirror.

“Oh! No!” she thought. “I’m being observed…”

The cold, rough ground scoured her bare feet as she ran. The night air ripped through the thin, white smock she was wearing, when they dragged her from her bed. Their cries of “Witch” echoed behind her as she scrambled, terrified and wild-eyed, up the wooded hill to escape their hatred and their torches.

She ran with a wild passion; driven by the murderous intent of her pursuers; those who hated her. Hated her for what they thought she was. Their angry chants and howls filled the midnight air.

Her chances of escaping the mob were thin and the girl knew it. She had seen this happen to so many others before her; and needless to say, none of them had made it. But she ran on anyway, panting her way up the steep slope; wild thorns from the thick underbrush slicing the bare skin of her young arms and legs. The maniacal crowd drew closer.

A jutting tree root snagged her foot and sent her sprawling to the ground. With flailing arms and legs she tumbled and rolled back down the thorn-infested slope. She tried to get up, but a burning sensation coursed down from hip to foot, leaving her in excruciating pain. Biting back pain and tears, she tried to clamber back up the slope on all fours, dragging her injured leg.

She looked back down over her shoulder and saw their torches, close now, and the shouting filled her head. A mass of flickering torches were inexorably racing towards her. Her hands and arms had lost their feeling, battered by thorns and rocks. Her breath was like fire in her chest. Tears streaked down what might otherwise have been a lovely, young face. The hunt was drawing to an end.

She collapsed and drew a bloody hand across her face; she was exhausted. The acrid stench of her own blood filled her nostrils, blocking out the natural scent of the forest around her. She lay panting; unable to push herself further. She had seen it all happen before, never imagining it would happen to her.

As they circled her frail body, the girl seemed momentarily unaware of their scowling faces, flickering down at her. Instead she stared up at the starlit sky and the full moon, and in some way seemed to draw strength from the beauty of the night. She slowly raised her arm and pointed to the heavens.

The mob hushed as she brought her blooded limb down, and with a strange movement of her hand she whispered her curse; the curse of the forest, the trees, the rocks; a curse powered by nature itself. She laid her head down… and slept.

When morning broke, soft rays of sun slowly lit a strange woodland scene.

A young girl slept peacefully on the grassy bank, surrounded by spent torches… and toads!

The phone rang.

“Hello

“Yes, is that the man with the answer?”

“Which particular answer were you after?”

“The answer to the Great Riddle, I mean.”

“Yes, this is he.”

“Ah! Well…”

“What is it you want?”

“I want to know!”

“You want to know what, precisely?”

“The answer.”

“The answer to what?”

“To the Great Riddle.”

“I’m afraid I cannot do that.”

“Oh! What a great pity; I wanted confirmation.”

“You believe you have the answer then?”

“Yes. I feel quite sure that I do.”

“I see.”

“Won’t you please help me?”

“That I can answer, but only in part.”

“What part?”

“One fifth.”

“Well, OK then; one fifth.”

“Are you sure you want it?”

“If that is all you can offer; yes.”

“Good answer. Depending on your next response, you may receive two fifths.”

“Very well. What is your answer to ‘won’t you help me?’ ”

“No.”

“Thank you.”

“Good response! You get two fifths, but I’m afraid no more than that.”

“Accepted. Please give me two fifths.”

“No, but…”

“I see. Thank you.”

“Good bye.”

“Good bye.”

The phone went down.

It was in the afternoon when the children made the discovery.

“It’s dead,” declared the younger of the two.

They gathered stones and began tossing them at the horse, lying motionless in the field.

The girl peered into its glazed eyes. “It’s very old, it’s probably asleep.”

“Do you sleep with your eyes open?” Came the retort.

“What would you know,” sneered the girl. “You’re just a kid.”

Her attention returned to the animal lying motionless in the bright sun. Flies were beginning to gather about its gaping mouth. “I reckon it belongs to the old guy who lives in the shack up there. You know, they always seem to be together. Dad says they must be good mates because they are never far apart. He must be about a hundred, like the horse.”

“Yeh!” exclaimed her young companion, gazing at the animal’s teeth. “Let’s go tell him. After all, he should be told, don’t you think?” He looked up at the girl with a begging smile that the she was only too familiar with.

She knew he would get a kick out of climbing the hill and knocking on the door of the shack. A place kids didn’t normally go on account of the stories about the old prospector. The word was he had been some sort of toff from a city somewhere but had come out to the bush years ago to get away from it all. His sourness and abrupt manner didn’t make him popular with the local kids.

“I suppose we could,” she sighed, looking up at the small building above the tree line. She hesitated for a moment, and then with a glance between them they both became children again. Running across the paddock, giggling and shouting directions at each other.

They ran along the dry creek bed, shouting hellos at a couple of men fixing fences in the distance, then raced up through the trees to the grass and gauze of the slope below the hut. They arrive at the porch.

“You call to him. He likes you best,” the boy assured his sister.

She climbed the wooden steps and knocked timidly at the door. There was no answer.

“Go on!” encouraged the boy.

She pushed the door open and peered in.

The old man lay on the floor in full view as she entered. His empty eyes were fixed on the ceiling. She shouted to her brother.

“Is he asleep?” whispered the boy.

The girl suddenly felt some new kind of fondness for her brother. She took his hand and squeezed it. She shook her head. “I don’t believe it” she muttered, “both going together!”

Down below in the shade of the trees the two men rested from their fence mending.

“Wasn’t that the Dawson kids that just shot by?” asked one.

“Must’ve been visiting the old bloke on the hill,” replied his companion.

“If they were, they’ll be disappointed,” said the other. “Just saw him ridin’ by a minute ago. Never saw that old horse of his move so fast. It was like it had wings!”

Through filtered bands of strength and opinion

Comes a precious thing.

It is my girl’s everlasting love;

Her growing, loving, sharing thing.

That which makes her, my love, my queen,

And I, a mighty king.

The way that girl’s love is shown to me,

Through bands of light and colour to restrain…

The plain view, objective only from the sight of me,

But trusting always, yes, always,

That which I perceive,

Is my girl’s love indeed.

The man in the suit with a bright blue tie sat on the bench.

The park was emptying of lunch-time office workers who had come out into the sun to eat, mainly from plastic lunch boxes. The day was sunny and the man on the bench figured that this was an ideal spot for locals to get out of their offices for a while. He looked at his watch, then at the old lady he shared the bench with. She wasn’t eating but automatically dipping into a paper bag, feeding the birds. ‘Blue-tie’ hoped she would move off soon as his appointment had come and gone fifteen minutes ago.

 

He could see a figure in the distance, sitting on another bench reading a ‘newspaper’, or at least pretending to. He felt sure this was his contact. Several minutes later the old woman struggled to get up using a cane that he hadn’t noticed before. She moved away down the path very slowly and ‘blue-tie’ saw the other man fold his paper and get up. As the woman disappeared, the younger man with the ‘newspaper’ strolled across the wide stretch of lawn in what ‘blue-tie’ thought was an over-exaggerated nonchalance. ‘Blue-tie’ smiled and mumbled “New boy!”

‘Newspaper’ sat down, leaving a wide gap between them, looking straight ahead. Without turning his head ‘blue-tie’ said “I presume you are my one o’clock appointment?”

With his face still fixed on the park ‘newspaper’ said. “I am, and this was supposed to be an extremely urgent matter. Are you aware of the time?”

‘Blu-tie’ didn’t like his tone. “Of course; I was told that this was to be a Level A1 meeting”.

“In that case, why were you wasting time cosying up with that old bird-feeder?”

The older man smiled. “Now, there’s a term I haven’t heard for a while”. He cleared his throat and injected a little more authority into his voice. “It wasn’t a case of ‘cosying up’ as you put it. The old lady had a perfect right to sit here. As much right as you or I. No words were exchanged between us. Did you expect me to tell her to clear off because I had this top priority meeting with the man over there pretending to read a newspaper?”

‘Newspaper’ wriggled uncomfortably. “I’m sorry; this isn’t going well, is it?”

“No it’s not. In view of the fact that this was supposed to be an urgent Level A1 exchange between your department and mine, I think we should just get on with it. Do you agree?”

“Yes. I agree. In that case… the red flower is wilting” the man whispered.

“Pardon?”

“What do you mean pardon?”

“I mean pardon! I can’t hear you”.

‘Newspaper’ repeated “the red flower is wilting” a little louder.

“The red flower is what? For heaven’s sake man! We are sitting on a seat in a large park that is practically empty. Unless one of us is wired, something that is strictly forbidden by A1 protocol, there is nobody around to hear a word you are saying!” ‘Blue-tie’ wiggled his blue tie and stroked his hair back with his hands in a gesture of exasperation.

“Wilting”.

“What?”

“Wilting. The red flower is wilting”.

“Oh! right. OK. The red flower is wilting. In that case… the last man is back”.

‘Newspaper’ squirmed. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t quite get that”.

‘Blue-tie’ said “OK. The last man is back”, in a fairly loud voice, then checked his watch.

‘Newspaper’ said in an apologetic voice. “No. That’s not it”.

“What do you mean, not it?”

“That’s not the correct response”.

“You have to be kidding”.

“No. I’m not. I mean, I wouldn’t, kid about it I mean”.

‘Blue-tie’ sat quietly for a full minute. He was obviously the more experienced of the two, but he could see this situation could well become ugly; for both of them, but especially him.

In a quiet voice now, he said “Was I close?”

The other was silent for a while, then said “I can’t answer that. I mean I don’t know how to answer that. I don’t know what the protocol is for this situation”. He turned to face ‘blue-tie’ and went on “To be honest with you I haven’t had much experience at this. I’ve only done one of these before, and that was easy; an A3 in an airport. It was very quick; and like I said, very easy”.

“Well, my young colleague”, ‘blue-tie’ began “it does beg me to ask why they picked you for this one?”

“Football… Oh! I probably shouldn’t have said that. I should say that there was nobody else available when the Commander rang”.

The two men were now occasionally glancing at each other.

‘Blue-tie’ said, in a consoling tone “That’s OK. I understand; but you do realise that if I was close, that tells you something doesn’t it?”

‘Newspaper’ thought for a moment, and said “Well, yes, I suppose it does, logically”.

“OK then”, he paused “Was I close?”

“Yes, you were close”.

“Well now, as you know these things are not written down and when my Section Leader briefed me he gave me the line twice, slowly. Now, let me think”. He then said softly “The last man is back”.

“Pardon?”

“No. Just talking to myself. How about this; the last man is black?” He looked at the other who was shaking his head. “How about; the last van is black?” Head still shaking. “The last van is back?” Shake. “Oh! Wait a minute… fast… fast… the fast van is back!”

“Yes!” ‘Newspaper’ raised his hands, as if to clap, then changed his mind and lowered them slowly. “Yes. Thank you”.

“Thank goodness! What’s the message?”

“I’ve been asked to tell you that; big fish is in custardy and is being held at safe house eleven”.

“OK. I am repeating; big fish is in custardy and is being held at safe house eleven”.

“Correct; and following the message I am supposed to state again that this is a Level A1 urgent exchange”. ‘Newspaper’ looked at ‘blue-tie’ with a question in his eyes.

“Don’t worry. It was the old bird-feeder’s fault”.

“What do you mean – her fault?”

“Well, how late did she make us?”

“I’d say about twenty minutes”.

“Right; well, I’ve just doubled the size of her paper bag, and that means she held us up by forty minutes. After all, this is a dedicated exchange point isn’t it?”

“Yes, of course”.

‘Blue-tie’ said “I’ll get this back to my section pronto. Give me a few minutes before you move”.

‘Newspaper’ said “Good to meet you”.

‘Blue-tie’ said “Likewise”, got up and walked briskly away.

‘Newspaper’ sat watching him go, until he was completely out of sight. That was the protocol, and the protocol for a Level A1 was strict; very strict indeed.