Author: Alexander Fawn

It all started with a small card, haphazardly jammed into the corner of the shop’s window.

He sometimes used the lane as a shortcut between the bus stop and school. The shop itself was pretty dingy. The card read Unwanted Relatives Disposed Of. He had never noticed it before. He went in and made enquiries. It was very expensive. The way it worked was you paid for a ticket, which would be sent to the chosen relative in the guise of a randomly selected winning prize. The trip of a lifetime; starting by train.

He started saving.

She had always been really nasty to him when he was a kid. She always looked sour. She never liked children, and said so. He had to take on two extra paper rounds, but finally, he went back and bought her ticket.

She took her seat, thrilled with the prospect of what lay ahead, along with all the other winners; hundreds of them. As soon as it pulled out of the station the conductor picked up the microphone. “Good morning ladies and gentlemen, please sit back and enjoy your journey to…” He went quiet. The train conductor simply could not remember the train’s destination. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Ah! Sorry, this train is going to…” Again, no destination.

All through the carriages passengers were starting to wonder not only where they were going, but where they originally thought they were going. They didn’t know; they couldn’t remember. They peered out of the windows, but the mist was so dense they couldn’t see a thing.

“Well people,” the conductor laughed nervously and went on, “let’s just see where the journey takes us, shall we?” Not surprisingly, nobody answered. The train just kept rattling along, never stopping, never emerging from the fog that seemed to travel with it, with the conductor never remembering where it was headed.

The schoolboy had no idea where she would end up, or if she would end up anywhere. After all, people go missing all the time. After a while the police and other agencies just stop looking; anyway, people like these are never really missed.

He certainly wouldn’t miss Aunt Dora!

He sat staring out at the greenery of the garden; he found great solace in the beauty of nature.

Yes, he remembered; he could see it now. He could see himself standing in a line of first year apprentices. He sat for a while visualizing the white, pressed lab coats. The dress mode that told everybody you were there for the training – there to be told. Good old days really… technology at the leading edge. New stuff being developed for the world of engineering and commerce; with large companies sending in orders for pumping, diffusing and heating equipment; all destined for the world outside.

The foreman had addressed the group of some fifteen or so young boys. Boys, because back then engineering was for males. He gave a short pep talk about their rotation through the various departments within the company.

Then came the man in the suit. The Personnel Manager. What did he say? He said there were three stages to a man’s life. Pretty grandiose stuff really! He told them there was school, and said they had all seemed to have progressed through that. A little touch of comedy to ease the tension on that first day. There was work… and then… then there was retirement.

Retirement! Something happened at that point. Some strange feeling of distant foreboding had set off a small, insistent alarm bell in his brain. He didn’t really understand it at the time, but he did now.

He thought back over the years and the number of times he had said that retirement was not something he ever wanted to seriously consider. But now, here it was, gnashing its bloody teeth at him!

He had recently dreamt up a newspaper headline; The Great Technical Writer Depression of 2013.

He sat pondering for a while, idly musing on what such an article would say. Sources within the recruitment industry tell us that we have entered a period of economic decline, during which the number of suitable contract roles for Technical Writers has fallen to, and remains at, a severely low level.

He smiled to himself. No, not really. Far too many other issues for anyone to be bothered about that.

He thought back to a recent conversation with his wife. He had referred to his situation as ‘falling into the abyss’, ‘passing through the gates of hell’, ‘being swept into the maelstrom’. Colourful terms, but summing up the way he felt nevertheless.

He was penning notes about the sheer ghastliness of it all when he was brought back from his reverie by one of the cats leaping up to the sill outside of  the study window. The movement caused a momentary distraction and he looked up to see the pet staring in.

He then looked out beyond… beyond to the greenery of the garden.

He became aware that he was finding comfort again, and reflected on how powerful a thing it was to be lifted from the maelstrom and brought gently back to the beauty of nature. It was always there, always available. The ever present gift of finding solace in the beauty of nature.

The writer was having trouble moving on with his story.

This was a difficult scene to close. He only really needed the detective to leave the room. That was all… as simple as that! Just finish this part off, so he can move on to the next chapter. He sat thinking for a while, then went on typing.

The detective closed the book and left the room.

The writer stared at the screen. No. It needs more than that. He typed…

The detective searched the room thoroughly before leaving.

Maybe more needed here. He tried…

The detective peered out of the window, tapping his magnifying glass on his chin. Suddenly, he swore softly to himself and rushed out of the room.

No… that’s too much. Maybe he just needs to be called out of the room.

The constable tapped on the door and opened it. “You’re wanted downstairs sir.” The detective followed him out.

That’s OK, but does he need to go back down at this point? No… that isn’t necessary. Does he simply need to know that there’s a clue in the room, but can’t quite put his finger on it?

The detective felt sure that the answer was in the diary he held. He left the room deep in thought.

Does the detective get his sudden revelation here? Perhaps not. Not straight away anyway. How about…

The detective closed the photo album and left the room.

No! That won’t work… too simple.

The writer had become very frustrated with this. He thought… enough is enough!

He closed his laptop and left the room!

How do we all get on together?

How is the issue of distance offset?

How do we each stay in touch?

Of course, there’s the Internet.

–

With this we make bookings and financially transact.

We research, self-educate and shop.

We can look at what the world has to offer;

With updates that never stop.

–

But further to its practical use

Of updating ourselves in real time,

There is another darker side;

Still only in its prime.

–

It moves into another world,

Including the shadowy place of text-dating.

Of late night computers that glow in dark rooms;

Of typing and sending and waiting.

–

Are there really such things as Internet lovers,

With pictures and words on a screen?

Are they each really making a friend,

Or just buying sight unseen?

–

Are people actually meeting,

With only a mouse’s click?

Can their lives come so easily together?

Can they really bond that quick?

–

Or are there keyboards out there that stalk?

There owners cunning and knowing

There are lonely people in cloistered bedrooms,

With black coffee keeping them going?

–

Can they trust and become infatuated,

With sweet words and a pixeled face?

Could this be the partner they’ve been searching for?

Can they be sure that this is the case?

–

Or are they just looking for someone to listen,

Or someone who really cares?

Are they searching for acceptance from strangers,

Or just someone to hear their prayers?

–

Are they just sending out random signals,

Or looking for the meaning of life,

Or rambling through sad fantasies,

Or escaping some personal strife?

–

For those who’ve lost touch with reality,

Are social networks some sad masquerade?

With senders making false profiles and claims

With ploys designed to persuade?

–

Are they trapped in some strange dimension?

Are they merely deprived of sleep?

Will the click of a button solve all of their woes?

Do their lives just need a clean sweep?

–

Do bloodshot eyes blink at a flickering screen?

Has the neck developed a crick?

Has the wrist showed signs of RSI?

Has the face taken on a tick?

–

Are they playing with words in cyberspace,

With their curtains drawn tightly closed?

Attempting to achieve some frail intimacy,

Not knowing if real names are disclosed.

Is it an outlet for creativity,

Or an addiction to the Internet drug?

Is it a withdrawal from real society,

By sweeping life under the rug?

–

Or is it all about zeros and ones

That buzz through some distant server,

And the flowing of tiny electrical currents

That would baffle the average observer?

–

This is a wondrous technology,

But what comes after the Net.

Has it been secretly invented,

Or simply not thought of yet?

–

Let us hope it is based on human needs;

That hopes of closeness are met.

That it brings souls more genuinely together,

Beyond the Internet.

He only knew her as ‘the girl’, she didn’t have a name.

He knew exactly what she looked like; height, age, figure, eyes brown, hair black, black and long and wispy. The image was there. It was his private fantasy and he never shared it. Why should he? Who would understand? She was about his age, around twenty. She had come into his life, or maybe into his mind would be more accurate, whatever, she had been there for him since he started work in the city. For more than three years she had been there, just a misty image that evaporated if he looked too close. He saw her time and time again.

He had learned not to look at her directly. If he did she would simply disappear. If he only kept her just within his peripheral vision she would stay. Whether she was walking, sitting on a park bench or staring into a shop window, wherever, by doing this he could keep her for a while before she faded away. That is why he never shared it. No one would understand.

It happened on the morning train. He sat idly staring out at the platform when he saw her. Again, that graceful walk with the head held just a little high, with her hair being tossed softly in the wind. He lowered his gaze as she approached his door. She was entering the carriage! She looked so real. She had never been this close before. She stood in front of him. He dared to look up.

She was pointing at the half space next to him. He couldn’t believe how real she seemed. He looked around to see if any of the other passengers were seeing her. None of them were taking any notice. He looked up at her again. She was still pointing. She smiled, the smile he had caught glimpses of so often.

She said “Sorry, where you saving this for someone?”

He looked at the seat and saw he was taking up too much room. Still in shock, he slowly shook his head and moved over. She sat. She was real!

With a questioning look, she said “Are you sure? You looked as though you were looking for someone.” Before he could answer, the train jolted forward and his eyes snapped open. He had fallen asleep.

As he watched the world outside pick up speed, he wondered whether he would see her today. He really hoped so.

It all seemed to start when the girl in the hairdressers sneezed while cutting hair.

She apologised of course, but the damage was done. Her customer found herself sitting on a bus a few days later being racked by a severe coughing fit. Later that week, the young student seated in front of her was telling his father about an upcoming exam when he sneezed and blew his nose.

Later, his father coughed while showing an elderly lady samples of carpet they sold in the store. Soon after, she sneezed while waiting to be served in the post office. The man next to her in the queue started coughing while he was talking to his neighbour. His neighbour coughed in a taxi.

The driver of the taxi coughed while working on jig-saw puzzle with his daughter. She sneezed near the instructor in the gymnasium. He sneezed while straightening his son’s tie. The boy coughed while talking to his teacher.

The teacher sneezed while helping her husband on with his coat. He coughed later that day, when he was giving change to a young man who was passenger on the city ferry. A day or two later, it seemed perfectly natural for the young man to kiss his girlfriend goodnight.

A couple of days following that, she sneezed while cutting hair.

She is very young.

Her clothes are ragged and she is dirty. There is not enough water to wash. The language that she was born to, is only now coming slowly to her. She can say the names of her mother and father and some of her former friends. These sounds are precious to her. Some of her friends are no longer here; she doesn’t know why.

She has had no real schooling. She is told to stay close. Her mother sits nearby, crying and holding a baby. Her mother hurt her leg badly when they ran to this place; it is swelling up. She hasn’t seen her father for several days and doesn’t know what that means.

Between the blasts that shake the unsealed roads and alleys of her town she hears the incessant rumbling of falling masonry. The air is very dusty. It makes it hard to breathe and she coughs a lot. Day after day there is smoke in the air.

She sometimes sees people with blood on them.

The broken toy she holds onto so tightly is no longer recognisable as anything. She knows what it is, what it was.

She could be in one of a number of countries. She won’t be seen by anyone. There are no TV cameras to capture her image.

She won’t be seen by the men in their planes, or the men with rifles and machine guns and rocket launchers. No one in the war rooms, or the barracks, or government buildings, or arms factories will ever have to see her.

She cannot imagine the nature and resolve of the soldiers that are sweeping through the area. She would have no idea what they are doing. It would be far beyond her to fathom their reason for doing it.

She is frightened. She is always frightened and has no other emotion to compare it with.

She is no more and no less precious than any other girl her age.

She has no way of knowing that soon she won’t be there.

So little is known about her. She has a thousand names.

Her passing will not be noticed. No family members will remain to mourn her.

She is the reason all others must hang their heads.

 

The wind had taken him; it had swept him clean off the high-rise building. With useless limbs whipping wildly, he plummeted to the concrete below. As he tumbled faster and faster past dozens of windows, Gerry realised two things. Firstly, his safety line had not been connected properly, and secondly, he had been totally involved in reliving last night’s video, in which he had been mentally playing the lead role. He loved movies.

He was screaming now, as loud as the rushing wind would allow… but as loud as he could, anyway. Then things began to change. An eerie silence fell and a soft whispering swam around inside his head. He was no longer falling but floating; suspended somehow, and the whispering gradually took on some sort of meaning.

“Gerald”. It was saying. “Gerald, I want to talk to you”.

He looked around at the soft, grey cloud that seemed to be cradling him. As he peered through the mist he saw the shadow approaching.

When it finally came to a halt in front of him he made out an extremely thin man, in fact, a skeleton, dressed in a long, black gown, holding a scythe. Gerry recognised him without any trouble, as the reaper. Right there and then, he was floating in mid air looking up into the face of Death. Gerry started to scream again; this time much louder, owing to the much improved environment.

Death winced, “Oi! Vay! Are you finished with the screaming already?” it croaked.

Gerry paused momentarily, trying to take in the concept of a Jewish reaper, then thought better of it and started screaming again.

The figure in black just watched him for a while; obviously waiting. Eventually exhaustion took over and Gerry dropped to a heavy gasping.

“If you’re finished with the screaming; I only need to ask you a question.”

“Do what? Are you mad? You have me suspended here, in this… this invisible hammock, and you want to ask me a question? Are you nuts?”

“Vai! This is not a quiz show. If you don’t like questions how about we just shmooze for a minute?”

“Shmooze? What’s that?”

“Oy vai! Shmooze, you know, a little chat, small talk”. He seemed to scratch his bony head with the tip of his blade. “Wait. I’ll change my speech pattern. Bone finger-tips touched his vertebrae, where a neck might normally be.

“OK Gerald I just have…”

“Gerry.”

“What was that?”

“Gerry. People call me Gerry, I never liked Gerald.”

“OK! OK! Gerry. I just have one question for you. One; that’s all”.

Gerry said. “OK. OK. Ask your question”.

“Do you want my job?”

“Eh?”

“I would like to know whether you would be interested in doing my job.”

Gerry looked baffled. “What do you mean your job?”

“You know; giving the calling, announcing when numbers are up… reaping!”

“You’re making me a job offer, right?”

“Yes, if you like.”

“Why?”

The figure sighed. “I’ve had enough. I’d really like to retire.”

“But you’re Death! I didn’t know you could retire.”

“Oh! I can, but when I put in my application, I was told that I had to find a replacement. So, what do think? Better than this isn’t it? You know…” he look down through the mist at the distant street. “…better than that down there.”

Gerry thought for a moment and said “Maybe”.

“It wouldn’t take much to transfer you”.

“Why would I want to transfer?”

“Well, like I said, you get to stay alive for one thing. Well, not exactly alive, not as such, but almost!”

“You mean I’d have to become an undead?”

“No, not undead; I don’t know what it is exactly but it’s definitely an existence, which many regard as much better than non-existence. Believe me, it is non-existence that waits for you down there on the road.”

Gerry thought deeply for a while.

Death said “Well, do you want the job?”

Gerry considered a little longer and said. “No! No thanks.”

The cloud vanished and he began falling again, although he didn’t seem to be getting any closer to the ground. Then he noticed that Death was floating beside him.

He was saying something. “You are really, really sure about this? You are absolutely sure you don’t want this job instead of being dead? It’s not too bad really. You actually get to meet lots of interesting people”.

“No, like I told you, I don’t want your job.” Gerry closed his eyes, resigned now to his fate.

“You’re positive then. You’re about to die here. Your body is going to smash into the middle of the street, make women scream, block traffic and generally lower the tone of the neighbourhood”.

“I told you before; I said no, I don’t want it.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“You really sure you don’t want it?”

“Yes!”

“Really, really sure?”

“Yes! I don’t want your job! Go away and let me die in peace.”

“What about the perks?”

“What perks?”

“Oh! Didn’t I mention them?”

“No. You didn’t. What perks?”

“Free video vouchers!”

“Free…?” Gerry didn’t finish the sentence. He was now making women scream, blocking traffic and generally lowering the tone of the neighbourhood.

“Bloody ingrate”, Death muttered, as he pulled a piece of paper out from his robe. He looked down his list… and disappeared.

He had more applicants to screen.

To watch a car speeding up

Is a truly amazing site,

Going faster and faster,

When rushing towards a red light!

–

I’ve seen it in the city.

I’ve seen it day and night.

A car moving ever faster,

Towards a bright, red light.

–

Now it’s bad enough to rush at all,

To miss out on the world around.

To hurry past what this world offers,

With all the wonders that abound.

–

Such folk who tend to be hasty,

Those who rush through their span,

Never hear the rustle of leaves,

Or wonder at the moon when they can.

–

No time to stop and look around.

No time to enjoy the hours.

No time to feel a gentle breeze.

No time to smell the flowers.

–

But to miss all this while on the run;

While squandering their appointed lot,

Is only part of what really takes place,

As they race to who knows what.

–

Is all this some kind of analogy,

About not heeding the warning chime?

About heading into uncertainty;

Wrong turnings, corruption and crime?

–

Is it drawing a very long bow

To see this reflection of life?

To see this speeding car

Representing some future strife?

–

The red signs that life gives a soul

Are put there to keep us from harm.

But what if they don’t see the light?

What if they don’t hear the alarm?

Can they not see what’s coming?

Can they not look ahead?

Don’t they see the looming sign?

Don’t they know that it’s red!

How easy it would have been for the man to just pass by the old busker without noticing it.

It was rare to see a beggar crouching against a shop window on the main street. It was lunchtime and people bustling along the pavement were having to skirt around him, being careful not to disturb his tatty old hat with its meagre collection of coins.

But the man on his lunch break had noticed it. It was nothing short of a miracle. How long had it been? Ten, no, fifteen years at least. He just couldn’t believe his luck, but now more than ever, he needed to use all of his skills as a commodities trader to clinch the deal. First he would think carefully about his approach. He crossed the street and double back to take up a position opposite. He had to be sure that the beggar didn’t suddenly move on and get lost in the crowd.

Occasionally the old man would give a short burst on a mouthorgan, more for getting attention than entertainment. From time to time, passers-by would drop the odd piece of change into the upturned bucket hat. It was green with an extra wide brim, just right for catching donations. He seemed to be doing quite well, and unbeknown to the professional man, the wily old beggar was aware that he was being watched.

After spending a few minutes working on his strategy, the man in the suit and tie crossed the street and tossed several gold coins into the hat. The beggar looked up, knowing that something was coming.

“I’ve decided to be straight with you” he said. “I’d like to buy your hat”.

“And why would you want to do that?” came the reply.

The man was becoming conscious that he was getting in the way of the foot traffic. He moved alongside the beggar and squatted down. Now eye-to-eye, he said “The fact is, a good fifteen or more years ago my wife put this hat into the charity bag by mistake, and I would really like to buy it back.”

He pulled out his wallet and checked the contents. “We could settle this for ten dollars.” The old man just stared at him. “OK. Fifty. I’ll give you fifty for it.”

The old man looked down at the hat, shaking his head. “My son bought me this hat. He died last year.”

Another check of the wallet and he said “OK. A hundred.”

The old man looked up and said “OK.” With that he emptied out the coins, stuffed them into his pocket, handed up the hat, took the notes, crumpled them and wedged them down with the coins. The other was gazing at the old hat with reverance and hardly noticed the old guy gather up his few belongings and quickly disappear into the crowd.

He folded the hat carefully and returned to the office. He still couldn’t believe his good fortune and could hardly wait to get home and tell his wife about it. She would be amazed.

As he entered the house he called out, saying he had some exciting news. His wife appeared wiping her hands on dish towel. “What is it? I’m in the middle of getting tea.”

He held the hat up with a wide grid. “Look what I’ve got.”

“I see. What have you got?”

“My hat! Can you believe it? I bought it off this old fella in town. My old hat!”

She gave him a mocking smile and rolled her eyes. “Your old hat?”

“Yes.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Yes it is, look.” He put it on and pointed to it. “See. My old hat!”

She shook her head. “I’m telling you, that isn’t your old hat.”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because that’s green, that’s why.”

“Well, green, yes. What about it?”

“Yours was blue.”

“Blue?”

“Yes, blue. I should know, I bought it for you. I never did like it but you insisted, so I bought it for you… and it was blue!” She went back into the kitchen, mumbling and shaking her head. She called out “What did you pay for it?”

He swallowed hard. “Five dollars.”

“Hah!” she cried. “You were had!”

He thought about blue and green, then turned red…