Author: Alexander Fawn

The wind blew gently through the damp trees and clouds moved gracefully across a soft blue sky. The autumn air was clear and light. Here and there little jewels glistened on a leaf, a stem, a blade of grass, and fleeting rainbows danced silently through the dewy forest.

A leaf moved and a spider appeared, before it hung a great sparkling web, heavy with beads of shiny water. The tree-dweller crouched in the well of a leaf. It did not move.

A bird turned slightly and lost height; its wings fanned out to gain the most from the morning breeze. With perfect skill it swooped down to the branch of its choice. In a moment, and without warning, an invisible and unaccountable gust of wind swept up to meet it. The air was sweet and unpredictable.

Twenty feet below, the spider waited by its great twinkling net.

With sudden clumsiness the bird above fought the air current and made the branch between its claws. The bow swayed for an instant and a twig fell free, plummeting helter skelter through the branches below, releasing a shower of fine dew into the morning air.

The web shook violently as it broke the twig’s fall.

The creature’s vigil was also broken, and in one swift movement it was at the base of its trap. Nothing moved. The spider knew that its meal had not yet arrived. The forest was still for endless seconds.

Somewhere above a bird flew out from the tree breaking the spell of silence, and the web spinner crept back to its leaf to wait.

It was just another miracle.

The aspiring young writer sat, quietly fingering his pen and pad.

He was allowing the wonders of his environment to soak into his very being. He breathed in slowly as a halcyon breeze embraced him with scents of nature’s green fragrance. He wondered at the blending of yellow and orange as the sun slid quietly below a distant hill. He listened intently to the wind as it rustled its way through the darkening forest. He closed his eyes and heard the soft bird calls that heralded the closing of the day. Beyond all this he was swamped by the sound of the gushing waterfall.

With eyes still closed, in his mind’s eye, he saw sparkling raindrops sliding over green and silver leaves, forming baubles of twinkling droplets. He saw these cascade through a lattice of blue-green grass-blades and soft mossy mounds, where the gentle slope of the dale sent the escalating trickle dancing over oyster-grey pebbles. He saw water running into the slope’s sweet crevices of soil with its treasures of shells, clay and shale, that over the millennia had purified these passing crystal flows, stripping away all impurities until playfully spilling over the rocky ledge, and falling as a rain-bowed stream of liquid light through the fragrant musk of the valley’s mist, plunging with a torrent of sound into the frothy waters below.

He finished his scribbling and scrambled to his feet. As he searched for where he had left his bicycle in the darkening wood he wondered what mark he would receive from his teacher for his efforts. Almost home, he stops beneath a street lamp. He fumbles out his notepad and reads: ‘The waterfall was very nice and it splashed a lot’.

As he peddles on, he is haunted by the notion that his aspirations of becoming a best-selling author were a long way off…

 

The man in the black cloak sat nursing his plate.

He was licking his fingertip and scooping up the few remaining pastry crumbs when she came back from the kitchen carrying more mince pies. “There’s more if you want” she says, with a cheery smile.

He waved an arm. “No. This is fine; delicious as usual.” He was thin and very pale, but he had flesh… not at all usual considering his calling. He was sitting at the dining table with a long scythe laying across his lap. He said “How long have we been doing this?”

She returned the pies, came back and sat across from him. She thought for a moment. “Must be five years, maybe more. Why do you ask?”

“Oh! I don’t know, five years of calling every second Tuesday of the month. It’s a pattern. Amazing that it’s never been noticed.”

She leaned forward and patted his hand. “I do so love your visits. They mean so much to me. After dear Reginald passed on I was left completely on my own, what with both my girls living overseas with their own lives to lead, there was simply no family left. Bingo once a week is a blessing I suppose, but your visits make it all worthwhile.” She sighed and added with a sudden frown “I wouldn’t want to get you into trouble.”

He scratched the white flesh of his nose with a long fingernail. “No. It’s not that.”

“What then, somethings troubling you.”

“Well, you are getting on now, one hundred and three I believe.”

“One hundred and two actually.”

“Oh! Sorry. One hundred and two.”

“One of these visits won’t necessarily be on a second Tuesday and won’t be to spoil myself with your mince pies.” He nodded. “They are very good you know.”

She beamed. “Oh! Thank you. You’re very kind.”

He went on. “I’ll be here to perform my official duty. It has to happen sometime. You’ve had, what, four close calls?”

“Four, yes.”

“Yes. Well, I can bend the rules from time to time; in your case more so, but eventually…”

She patted his hand again. “Yes, I know dear, but we don’t have to dwell on that until the time comes do we?”

He shrugged. “No. I suppose not.”

“Now. Are you quite sure you wouldn’t like another helping.”

He shook his head and stood up. “No. I’m running a little behind. I should get going.”

He walked to the front door. As she opened it she asked, “Next time? What will it be next time?”

He shouldered his scythe and smiled just as his veneer of flesh disappeared and his skeletal aspect returned. Passing through the door she could just make out a croak of words.

“Next time… pies.”

 

Rusty gates, leading to mossy paths;

Bluebells teeming through a wood.

His weekly reading from a book,

The way an English teacher should.

–

Wearing a starched and itchy ruff,

While in a chorister’s pew.

The ice across the local pond.

An endless cinema queue.

–

After-school swimming at the local baths.

The biting cold, while waiting for a bus.

Being the West Wind in a school play.

The drama coach, who loved to cause a fuss.

–

Our garden full of autumn leaves.

The smell of bathroom soap.

An endless park with squeaky swings.

A pond with hanging rope.

–

Books from the library.

The hoot of distant owls.

Car rides to the city.

A line of drying towels.

Grinning for a photo shoot.

A hammock in the trees.

A cat upon the windowsill.

A jangling of front door keys.

–

Blank poetry notes, with lines unwritten.

A page waiting, with just a squiggle.

My mother’s food, my father’s smile,

My younger brother’s giggle.

–

A bric-a-brac of memories.

Now fading, hard to see.

But be they bright or be they dim,

They all belong to me.

Ronald stood with the larder door open, staring in.

This memory thing was getting really bad. He was finding that more and more he would open a door, a cupboard or a drawer and stare at the contents with no idea what it was that he went there for. There was a name for the condition but he could never remember it.

Last week he was in the garage – lots of room in there now because after the last incident he wasn’t allowed to drive any more – anyway, he was in the garage trying to remember what he wanted in there. After several agonising minutes it came to him that he was looking for milk. So he went back into the house very annoyed because being away so long his tea was bound to be stone cold; and he hated cold tea. So, it turned out that when he got back that wasn’t a problem, because he hadn’t poured it. In fact, he hadn’t even boiled the kettle! He was getting really thirsty by now so he decided to just have a glass of milk instead, so he went back into the garage to get it!

Ronald knew this was an age-related condition. It had a name but he couldn’t remember it. He had been given a pamphlet at the surgery that described the problem, with a list of really useful hints all aimed at helping people cope with… with whatever this thing was called. Anyway, he went looking for it the other day, but couldn’t figure out where he had put it.

Today should be OK though. His friend, what’s-his-name, comes in twice a week just to see that he’s all right. He could be coming today, but Ronald wasn’t sure what day it was. Not what day it was right now, but what day it was that his friend looked in. Although, now he came to think of it he didn’t actually know what day of the week it was right now; so even if he could remember the days that his friend came round, he wouldn’t know whether today was one of them.

Anyway, he was still staring into the larder when he heard the front door bell go. On his third attempt he found the front door and peered through the little spy-hole. As he didn’t recognise the lady standing there he asked who was there. The woman said “Susan” and he asked “Susan who?” and she said “Dad, it’s Susan your daughter” and he let her in.

While she was unpacking the groceries she said he had missed a call earlier when he was in the garage. She then asked what he was doing out there anyway, and he said that he couldn’t find whatever it was that he went out there for and that it wasn’t there last week either. She said never mind, she didn’t know who was calling but they just asked for Ronald. He said “Ronald who?” and she said “Ronald, you Dad, you’re Ronald”, and he said he liked the name and she said yes she had always liked it too.

She said she would put stuff away and make them a nice cup of tea and take it through to the lounge. Several minutes later he found the lounge and sat down. She said “Are you happy Dad?” He smiled and said “I can’t remember”.

 

They were having another of their little tiffs.

They were probably no different than most married couples. He was saying “Yes it does” and she was in the kitchen saying “No it doesn’t.”

He put down the newspaper and said “It’s that old glass-half-empty thing with you isn’t it?”

She came to the door and said “What do you mean?”

“Well, as a general rule you tend to take the half-empty look at things.”

She went to respond but he went on. “I am quite willing to admit that generally speaking I happily, and quite possibly blindly, go through life with a constant glass-half-full attitude. You, on the other hand my love, tend to be more cautious about playing down any possible pitfalls life may confront us with. In other words, you see things as glass-half-empty. I guess it’s all about your worldview really.”

“Worldview?”

“Sure, a person’s fundamental cognitive orientation: one that encompasses the entirety of an individual’s point of view.”

She peered around the door again and saw that he was holding his mobile phone. “You’re looking all this stuff up on your phone, aren’t you?”

“Of course! Anyway, that’s the way I see it.”

They both fell silent for a while. Whereas these subtle variations in how life was being looked at by each of them had never been a real problem, the conversation was definitely becoming more deep and meaningful on this occasion.

She shrugged her shoulders and returned to her cooking. After a few moments she called out “Going back to this glass-half-full thing; are you sure it’s as simple as comparing these two opposing points of view.”

He thought for a moment and said “You know, that’s the funny thing about this water-in-the-glass analogy, they’re not really opposites at all. I mean… to say that a glass is either half full or half empty is actually saying the same thing.”

She carried on stirring the pot. He picked up the paper, only to put it down again. “Well, you know, this all comes down to symbiosis.”

“Symbi what?”

“Symbiosis.”

“Go on.”

“Yes, symbiosis, the term commonly describes close and often long-term interactions between different biological species. It’s about organisms that live in a mutually beneficial and close association with each other. Like us, if you like.”

She appeared again, this time waving a spoon. “But that doesn’t really make sense when you think about it.”

“Why not?”

“Well, because saying two things, or organs, or peoples can be mutually beneficial and then comparing that with fact that glasses half full and half empty are the same just doesn’t gel somehow.”

“Yes it does.”

“No it doesn’t.”

“Yes it does.”

“No it doesn’t…”

They simply had to have it, it was the only way.

If he could only gain entrance to the room he was convinced the disaster could be avoided. He tried the door, and to his amazement it was unlocked. He pushed it open and entered slowly. He found the light switch; the room was a clean and orderly lounge room. Two settees faced each other across a low coffee table sitting on a rug. An entertainment centre sat in one corner with another door leading off to other rooms. There was an elegant light fitting, and an assortment of pictures around the walls.

The room was pleasant enough, but what really struck him, what immediately took his breath away was the curtained window. It was hung with a pair of beautiful full length curtains. The curtains looked very expensive and made from a particularly fine damask. He moved into the room slowly and walked across to them. He felt the heaviness of the cloth; it put him in mind of his uncle’s shop when he was a kid… making a bit of pocket money on the weekend.

It was during this time that he found he had a strong liking for curtains made from this material. It was nearly always more expensive than any other material in the shop, and as result not a lot of it was sold. He would watch customers stop and feel the texture. He would listen to their comments. He membered how his uncle was forever talking about the decorative effect of drapery, and how important curtains were in a room.

Even now he could remember some of the dos and don’ts his uncle would repeat like some sort of sacred mantra. Only ever do a warm hand wash, never bleach, always drip dry in the shade, no ringing or rubbing, don’t tumble dry, only ever use a warm iron, and never dry clean them. He could actually hear his uncle saying that. Never dry clean them!

He stepped back to admire them. Each curtain was full-length with two matching tie-backs, and matching pelmets, all in a carefully understated blend of beige and gold. The unique repeating of the floral motif was a piece of art in itself. They had obviously been chosen to match the general ambiance of the room. Every detail showed the fact that they had been professionally made.

Suddenly, he was brought out of his reverie by a noise; not loud, but a noise coming from another room. He should get on with… he held the thought, but he couldn’t complete it. What should he do? What had he come here to do? He knew it was important, and he… Another noise, this time louder. Somebody was obviously approaching from another room.

He moved as quickly as possible to the door. He went through it without making a noise.

Out in the hallway his lookout whispered “Did you get it?”

“Get What?”

Mitch was a bully. He had always been a bully. They were in the playground now arguing. As he brought his fist down towards the little girl’s face, something happened. He didn’t know what, but something had certainly happened…

On the other side of the playground the visitor smiled. He looked around. He liked it here. He was a traveller, but he occasionally came across a place that looked interesting. A place that seemed to have so much potential, like this one. When that happened he would hang around awhile. He loved watching the kids; looking on, unseen.

School had just got out. It was a large school, and a huge, bustling mass of bodies came teeming out onto the front footpath. Most of the kids were running, laughing, shouting to each other, swinging their bags around. Some made their way to the bus stop while others went over to the park to carry on playing and taking the opportunity to catch up with friends from other classes they hadn’t seen all day.

They left a commotion behind them in a far corner of the playground, where a teacher was bent over the body of a small boy. He was looking around frantically as he spoke into his mobile. Another teacher stood back a little, comforting a small girl who just couldn’t stop sobbing. Yes. He loved watching them.

Mitch found himself sprawled on a hot, gravely floor. He opened his eyes to the dark and blinked. He was faintly aware of a figure nearby, but couldn’t make it out. The only source of light came from the horizon; a great orange glow with flames licking up into a black sky. There was a horrible stench in the place but he didn’t recognise it. The figure moved a little closer but said nothing. Its empty eye sockets seemed to pick up the light and emitted a faint glimmer.

Mitch suddenly recognised the Reaper for what he was. Even at his tender age he knew that he had been taken. He had been brought down into the terrible depths of Hell. He knew that he was now about to be cast into the great, fiery, bottomless pit. It was Mitch’s turn to sob.

Later, in the lab, two men stood by the metal table looking at Mitch’s sad little body.

The inspector slowly shook his head. “I just don’t get it.” He looked up at the man washing his hands. “This doesn’t make sense to me. How could this happen?”

“It does. Oh yes, cases of kids around seven and eight suffering a sudden heart attack. Of course, it is by no means common, but it does happen.”

The inspector scratched his neck. “Yes, but six in only two weeks?”

A poet once wrote about the lives of clouds;

From their lifeless point of view.

And are such notions merely illusory?

Can these feelings ever be true?

–

He thought that clouds watched men come and go on Earth;

Floating there, they watch the moon and seas.

Can it be that such things, quite inanimate,

Interact in such ways as they please?

–

Does a paperweight become neurotic when it’s weighing nothing down?

Does a guitar cringe when it is out of tune, does it really know?

Does a damp towel consider it has been abused, when left in a heap on the floor?

It all seems quite capricious, how far do these ideas go?

–

When scissors are closed in a silent room, do they whisper to themselves?

Can a snow-globe get dizzy when shaken again and again?

Does the forgotten doll on a dusty shelf pine for those long gone hugs?

Does a loosened rock quake with the sound of the coming rain?

–

Does a staple remover ever tire of its use, of continually undoing the done?

Does the bursting balloon know in that instant that all past admiration is blown?

Does a doorknob ever get giddy, being twisted back and forth?

Do steps become proud of their age, with worn dips shaping their stone?

–

Does a sleeping pill ever feel sad that it has to be used at all?

Can the horse on a Merry-Go-Round ever feel the centrifugal force?

Does a toothbrush quietly wince and groan when teeth are brushed too hard?

Does an apple left to rot in the grass ever feel remorse?

–

Does a notepad ever wonder what will be written next?

Does the silver dome of a cooking pot really hate the heat?

Does a toothpick feel unfulfilled when it breaks while doing its job?

Can a bed really blush when a child wets its sheet?

–

Does a cup ever have a preference about being filled with coffee or tea?

Does a fridge ever feel bilious when food has gone off in there?

Does an alarm clock ever get angry when its owner goes back to sleep?

Does a chess-piece sigh with annoyance when placed on a threatened square?

–

Such fanciful ideas are only born by those conjuring with pen and wit.

A nonsense, yes; but for a poet, this may well be the fashion.

Placing such feelings, where they are rarely seen to fit,

Imbues nonsense with a passion.

She found him in the living room immersed in the Sunday paper.

She stood in the doorway for a while. He pretended not to notice. He knew what she was about to say and was secretly enjoying the moment. He looked up. “Did you want something Honey?”

She bobbed her head around and said “You know what next week is, don’t you?”

He frowned and said “Next week? Let me think; local elections? No that’s too soon thank the Lord.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

“Oh! Come on. Stop playing around. You know it’s Christmas.”

“Oh! Really?”

“Yes really. What do you want?”

He took on a painful grimace and she sighed. “It’s always the same, I never know what to get you; and you don’t exactly help.”

He shook his head smiling. “Not this time Honey, I’ve got a list.”

“You’ve got a list! I don’t believe it.”

He sniggered and dug into his back pocket bringing out a folded sheet of paper.

Impressed, she sat down attentively, saying “OK. Let’s hear it.”

Unfolding it carefully he cleared his throat and read.

“I want the dog across the road to stop barking at night.”

“I want the government to bring in a two day week.”

“I want someone in authority to explain simply what superannuation is.”

“I want all of the parking meters in town ripped out.”

“I want Jim Bromley brought back from the dead so he can repay the 163 dollars he owes me.”

“I want to be several years younger.”

“I want politicians to stop telling lies.”

“I want everybody in the world to have one square meal a day.”

“I want to live forever.”

“I want all the governments in the world to ban wars, either that or a new pair of slippers.”

She started “Well, I’m not sure about…”

He interrupted her. “No. Don’t tell me anything. Surprise me!”