Author: Alexander Fawn

Witches on their broom-sticks filled the skies.

The now excited wicked witch from the great metropolis, where so many of them had gathered during the time of the Great Wiccaring, cackled the way witches do. She had found him. She hovered, waiting for the great witch of witches to join her. She hovered on her broom-stick above a young lad, not letting him out of her sight. She would be highly rewarded for being the one to find him. Prophesy had it that a young boy would be born that would possess the power to destroy the Supreme Witch, with an abundant spinning. This latter part had always been the subject of lengthy debate but had remained a mystery.

And so, it came to pass that decades of witchery ruled, while these malevolent creatures flew criss-cross over the stricken city seeking him out. And now he was found. The child sat playing with his spinning top. It was made of wood and painted with bright colours that blended into a rainbow blur each time he spun it. The witch had an evil grin as the Supreme Witch approached. At this point the boy stood and ran quickly into the street, then ducking through a series of alleyways came to the airport’s lofty chain link fence. He began to climb.

The supreme leader of the vast community of witches came down and floated directly above him. He sat straddled on the top of the fence. She drew her wand. He took his top from his pocket and lifted it high above his head, smiling. Not to be distracted by this childish behaviour, she raised her wand to deliver her most potent black spell on the unfortunate boy when she heard a noise.

With a gentle ‘phut’, she was instantly sucked into the engine of a Dreamliner.

What made her stop and pick it up remained a complete mystery to her.

She had always been someone that was perfectly content with her own company. From her comfortable recliner, she looked out at a sparkling sea beneath a clear blue sky. Occasionally she’d watch small boats sail past. Sometimes she would watch as a cruise ship bring tourists to the island. Those who could afford it would spend a week in the five-star hotel, nine floors below her luxury apartment. There were swimmers and surfers, of course. Her window also provided a panoramic view of the sandy beach, with multi-coloured sun shelters, beach tents and umbrellas. She could look down at the idle rich soaking up the sun. She could see it all, content to while away her days, just doing this.

She would sometimes think back. She would bring back images of the peeling wallpaper, faded curtains and noisy water pipes. A rude landlord, noisy neighbours, along with a job that was mind-numbingly boring. A pittance of a wage that meant she was just scraping by from week to week. Filthy weather that was cold and miserable, and a boyfriend, if you could really call him that, and their rocky relationship, that was going nowhere. Then, the day in the shopping mall, passing by the kiosk that sold lottery tickets. Then there was the person she would never know who bought the winning ticket and dropped it as they walked away. There it was, the impulse to walk over and pick it up. To walk away with the winning ticket. Not just the winning ticket, but the unsigned jackpot prize winning ticket. Next, the anxious waiting period to cash it in.

Then… then this! She came back to the present, enjoying her view out through her window. She had never been able to figure out what it was that made her stop and pick the ticket up.

She could live with that.

He sits quietly in his usual corner.

She moves out from behind the counter, a tray of food and drink in hand. Look how gracefully she moves, he thinks. In fact, she’s a graceful person. Always polite. Customers love her. She’ll always stop for a cheery word. She walks past him to deliver the meal to an elderly lady, and because it’s quiet in the café today, she stops for an extra-long chat, treating the old dear more like a friend than a customer. How long had he been coming here? Coming mainly for the chance to exchange just a few short words with her, to see her lovely smile light up her face. Trying so hard to build up enough courage to ask her out. He felt so hopeless!

She comes back, glancing out into the busy street as she returns to the counter. He notices that she does this often. Ever since the day of the accident. It happened right there on the road. Three cars colliding together. The terrible noise it made, and the frantic running around trying to pull people out of buckled side doors. The flashing lights of police cars and ambulances. The tow-trucks trying to clear the way while traffic built up, coming into town from both directions. Those in the café that day had ringside seats. Smoke and alarms and chaos. One fatality and three critically injured.

Whenever she passes the spot; whenever she looks out and remembers, is there some personal sadness in her face? Was there an unspoken and private grief in her expression?

He thinks, I wish I could talk to her. I wish she could see me. I wish I weren’t dead!

It was a complicated series of actions that he needed to take.

There was a great deal of pressure on him to get it right. The technician slid into the crawlspace and switched his head torch on. He opened the control panel and stared for a while at the wiring looms. There were a lot of them, all colour coded, with each section numbered. To the untrained eye it would be simply chaotic, but to a trained professional it didn’t pose much of a challenge. The only question was, in what sequence to perform each cut, each part replacement, each transfer of circuitry. That is why he had memorised the twenty-eight steps in their precise order before squashing himself into the very tight space. In his head, he had the procedure set out in a list of actions, much like the tracks on a music CD.

He went to back the terminal screw off the purple wire on rack B4, when he stopped. That’s not right, he thought. He wouldn’t do that until he’d rerouted the red on rack D7 to rack B3. He was running through the list that he had so carefully committed to memory and learnt by heart, when he suddenly realised that somehow it had been set on ‘shuffle’.

The ward was quiet now, nearing the end of the day.

The old man sat by his wife’s bed, holding a bony, colourless hand. A hand that he had held and loved for a lifetime. A full and happy life that he wouldn’t have changed for anything. He is at one with all its ups and downs. She had been there with him through all of them. She had been there from the beginning. The beginning… the Laundromat he used, coming home. The girl behind the counter. Her with her blue eyes and happy face. His longing to talk to her. Not about clothes or dry-cleaning or prices. Talk to her in a coffee bar or just somewhere else.

A smile creased his old face. He had finally asked her out. And what about his surprise when she laughed and said yes. How foolish he felt that day. Realising that she had been waiting for him to pluck up the courage. He stroked her thinning hair away from her face. That day in the laundromat, how precious it was. How often through the years had he thought back to it? Even later, when the owners sold up and moved on, it didn’t take his memories away. Not a bit of it. His recollections held fast. They kept him where he needed to be. He pulled a tissue from the side and dabbed his eyes. Happy eyes, giving tears of joy. Joy from such happy memories. He sat back and looked at the clock. He looked around. Visitors were leaving.

He closed his eyes. It was a stroke that brought her here. Not enough blood flowing to a major part of her brain stem, the doctors had told him. They said it was a coma, a state of prolonged unconsciousness. That was nearly a week ago. A week of coming in the morning and leaving in the evening. He looked at the clock again. He always obeyed visiting hours. The nurses appreciated it. He knew she was being looked after; given the best of care, but… what could he do? How could he contribute? He felt so desperate, so helpless. He would come again tomorrow, and tomorrow, until there was change. Every night, at home, now an empty shell of a place, he prayed for change.

He stood up slowly. He leant over her and kissed her forehead.

The heart monitor beeped a little faster. One eye opened slowly, and a soft smile rippled over a pale, wrinkled face. As beautiful as the day he met her. The day he walked into the local Laundromat, that isn’t there anymore.

“You always did make my heart beat faster,” she whispered.

He began to sob with joy.

It was advertised that this particular fortune teller would be coming to the fair.

She was so excited. This was her opportunity to see what the world could offer a young woman with big aspirations. She always felt that she was going to the top of whatever she did. Despite her high level of self-confidence, she saw this as a way of confirming her feelings. She soon found the tent and read the sign. A thrill ran through her as she read the name. It showed that one of the most famous seers in the world had actually come to the fairground and pitched her tent. She was in great demand, with lots of articles on the Web, all singing her praises and her accuracy.

The sign hanging on the flap said, ‘Next’. She entered and sat down at the table. Almost instantly the old fortune-teller appeared. With a beaming smile she sat opposite. The young woman handed the required fee over, a roll of banknotes held by a rubber band, several months’ worth of hard savings.

The seer opened a box and dropped it in.

For the best part of half an hour several packs of cards were used to gradually cover the table. There was a great deal of pack cutting, counting, selecting and turning over of cards involved. Finally, when all had been dealt, the old seer stared at the complex pattern of selected cards. She was nodding as she was reading them. Her head suddenly stopped and she looked up with a look of terror. Her hand went to her heart and her eyes closed. She remained like that for a few beats.

Then, with trembling hands she opened the money box and retrieved the roll of notes. These she placed on the table in front of the girl. She got up quickly and without a word disappeared behind the curtain.

He slid along the bar a bit and asked her what she was drinking.

The place was very noisy. A large crowd always turned up on nights when the bar put on a live band. He had to repeat himself. She told him again and he ordered two drinks. He looked around nervously, as though he didn’t belong in the place. The drinks came and they sat sipping on them. As noisy as it was, she broke the silence between them.

“Thanks!” She held her glass up. She sidled closer. “Not exactly your scene this, is it?”

“You can tell?”

She smiled knowingly. “What brought you here?”

“I’m kind of working,” he said. “Well, I should say, I am working.”

“How curious! You’re in a place like this, and you’re working.”

“I know, it sounds weird, but I’m looking for someone.”

“You’re in here looking for someone and you’re working at the same time. You must be police.”

“No. Not exactly. I’m working for a security company,” he looked embarrassed, “just started.”

She dropped her voice, despite the racket going on all around them. “Tell me more, I’m intrigued.”

“It’s all about identity theft.”

“Wow!”

“It’s an inheritance case.”

“Ooh!”

He lowered his own voice as much as he could. “Some of them are just revenge killings,” he went on, “I don’t particularly like those.”

“What? You mean you track down the thief and dispose of them?”

He nodded.

“But that’s murder!”

“Yes. I said I didn’t like it.”

“How exciting! You’re on the job now. Don’t suppose you can tell me who’s paying for these drinks?”

He said, “Indirectly, your dead sister’s estate, but directly, your brother.”

It was then that she caught sight of the gun with the silencer.

Through the window, he saw her come into the room.

He was pretty sure she was up to no good. She switched on the light as she entered. He thought this was strange, if she was in fact a burglar. Which he was really sure she was. No; if she was a proper burglar she’d be going through the room with a small torch. She’s probably new at the game. Unless… unless she had cased the place really well and knew for sure that the owners were out and wouldn’t be back for a while. If that was the case, she was good. Yes, she could know exactly what she was doing. He didn’t know what sort of room he was looking at. It could be a study. There was a desk, he could see that. She was walking towards it. Once there, she began sifting through a small pile of papers. Then, seeming to find the one she was looking for, she straightened and held it up to read. She had her back to him. If only he could see what it was! Was this the thing she had come to steal?

He was adjusting the focus when his door opened.

His mother said, “OK, sweetie, that’s enough telescope for tonight, time for beddy-byes.”

He was looking forward to attending the service, it was such a very old church.

This particular Sunday he would pray and give thanks in a church that was built sometime around the year six hundred and something. Apart from the challenge and thrill of visiting such a place, he felt that his religious fervour was waning. This little road trip may give it a boost. In this part of the world the roads where narrow and twisty as they wound through the countryside. The ageing map that he was referencing was probably out of date. There was also the probability that he had missed one or two roadside signs. He knew his time was running out and he would miss the service if he wasn’t careful.

As he took yet another sharp bend he saw an old man sitting on a gate, set back between the hedges. He had a heavy walking stick across his lap. He was obviously a local. This would be his opportunity to get proper directions. He pulled up and wound down his window. “Good morning!” he shouted, waving his map in the air. “I seem to be lost. Are you local, by chance?”

The man lifted his cane with a grin. He said “You could say that.”

He got out of the car and went up to him opening the map. He pointed to the tiny box on the map with the church’s name.

The old man squinted at the map.

“Apparently, it’s a medieval church,” the young man gushed. “It has a seventh-century sundial embedded in its walls.”

“You could be right about that.”

The younger man smiled. “Yes, it’s Anglo-Saxon; very old.”

The old man nodded.

The other said, “Do you know it?”

“I should. My sister was married there.”

“Oh! Really? How nice.”

“Not really. He was no good. Took off. Left her destitute, he did.” He spat into the hedge. “Hung herself!”

The young man winced. “Good Lord!”

“Don’t think the Good Lord had much to do with it.”

The young man looked at his watch. He saw he was now running very late.

The old man said, “You’re way off here, lad. Map’s no good. Older than me, I’d say.” He pointed up the road, in the direction the car was pointing. “Just carry on up here until you see two milk churns on the verge, take the next turning on the right. About half a mile down there and you’ll see a white cottage with the thatched roof. Turn left immediately after that and it’ll take you to the main road. You need to cross that, by turning left then right. Keep going on that road until you see the sign for a caravan park. Just after that turn right. You’ll get to a small roundabout, go straight over. On that road you’ll see some open fields on your left and a row of cottages on your right. Turn right at the end of the cottages and you’ll be on a gravel lane. Just along there on the left you’ll find the church.”

With that, he turned and climbed over the gate and took off across the field. The young man watched him go. He looked back at the map. It seemed that, regardless of how long he had been driving and how far he had travelled, looking at the map he realised he was very close to home. He got back in his car and made for home.

He was going right off this God thing.

Visiting hours would start in a minute or two.

The old man in the bed was looking up at the ceiling, brooding. His old friend and neighbour would show up soon. He would no doubt ask him how he’s doing, he always does. This time he was going to tell him. He really should tell someone. It might as well be him. Noises came from up the other end of the ward; they were letting them in. A few moments later his neighbour poked his head in the door. With a cheery smile he entered the room and pulled up a chair.

“How are you doing?” he enquired.

The patient took in a long breath and said, “Life just seems to have become too much for me.”

Surprised at this response, his visitor asked, “Why? What’s the matter?”

The old man sighed. “You know, all this stuff we’re supposed to know, all of the things that we are supposed to find out about. We get born knowing none of it, then we begin to learn about things, but we can never get to know it all, no one can!”

His visitor sat in silence, then nodded.

“You take a spoon for instance,” the other went on, “a common enough thing you’d think, but how much is there to know about it. Well, one hell of a lot I can tell you!” He wriggled his shoulders. “Quite apart from what it can be made of, or what it’s used for, or its history and development throughout the ages; apart from all that, just the thing itself; its physical presence, if you like.”

He lay there nodding slowly before going on.

“Most people would be able to tell you that it has a handle. Some would think it was too small to be an actual handle, but of course that’s what it is. I doubt very much that there would be too many people that could tell you that the other end is called a bowl.” He shrugged. “Then, there’d be even fewer that know that the bit in the middle is the stem. The bowl ends at the tip and the handle ends at the terminal, and if that part, the terminal, has anything fancy on it, it’s called a finial. Then there’s the neck, that’s the bit between the bowl and the stem, if this has any additional bits on either side they’re called shoulders. Then, there’s the drop.” He looked across with a wince. “That’s the curved shape underneath the bowl that goes from the bowl to the neck. That part’s called the keel and any fancy shapes that are added there are called heels.”

He turned to his visitor with raised eyebrows.

“You see what I mean? It’s all too much.”

The other went to say something.

The old man went on, “I find myself engulfed in what is an overpowering vastness of knowledge. I’m simply swamped by the sheer enormity of it all.”

He sat thinking for a moment while his visitor remained silent.

The old man flapped his hands. “Then, there’s forks!” he said. “Ha! Forks. Don’t talk to me about forks!”