Author: Alexander Fawn

He had a theory about protecting himself from getting sick.

Well, not just him but others. He considered it to be a remarkable panacea. He’d read about measles parties, where parents arrange a social activity for their children in order to deliberately expose them to an infectious disease. His idea was that the moment a person feels the slightest whiff of sickness coming on, they get themselves off to a really crowded venue. He postulated that by doing this at a time when the immune system is kicking in and becoming fully active, it will immediately start working on combatting any disease or infection. If a person were to attend such a place as this at a time when they were absolutely fit and in perfectly good health, one’s body’s natural defences are simply not ready to cope with the onslaught of any virulent disease.

He was thrilled with the fact that circumstances had provided him with the perfect opportunity to put his theory into practice. He was feeling just a wee bit under the weather. At that time, it just so happened that there seemed to be quite a lot of flu cases sweeping the country. He had tickets for a football match and he had read in the paper that many ticket holders were cancelling for fear of catching a dose of what was going around. He found the reduction of numbers attending disappointing, but there would still be enough of a crowd for him to mingle with.

 

hadn’t gone exactly according to plan, but a couple of days later he was still talking about it.

However, nobody in the hospital ward was at all interested in his ideas.

The trial itself had gone on for several weeks.

Now, in the jury room, it had been going on for days. Everyone was getting tired and worn down by the endless cycle of debate and sometimes argument. Just one troublesome member was holding out, and he wouldn’t be moved. He kept putting ‘not guilty’ on the voting slips that were passed around. The men and women of the jury sat glaring at him when, yet again, the slips were counted.

The odd man out squirmed a little before speaking. “It’s the principle, isn’t it? Innocent until proven…”

The most aggressive member slapped the table. He said, “Surely, it’s a pretty straightforward case. All the evidence is there.”

Troublesome said, “You say all the evidence.”

Aggressive replied, “Yes, the DNA! It has him banged to rights. There may be some doubt about the fingerprint identification and I agree that the blood type was inconclusive, but you can’t question the DNA.”

Troublesome shook his head. “But, that’s it, isn’t it? You’ve hit the nail on the head there, you certainly can question the DNA.”

“What do you mean?” said aggressive.

Troublesome threw up his arms. “Look, all I’m saying is mistakes have been made in the collection process, as well as cases where samples have been mislabelled. The chain-of-custody process can go wrong and has shown up as being a matter of human error.” He shrugged. “That’s where there has to be some doubt.”

The foreman said, “You know, he does have a point.”

It may well be that a killer went free that day… legally.

There was an eerie quietness all about as she moved through the trees.

She could feel the great sadness welling up through mother earth. Her ears took in every single song that birds were singing. Her fingertips stroked each passing ancient tower, tumbling over bark that had always been, since time began. She felt the silent budding of seeds beneath her feet. She stopped occasionally to confirm the growth of moss and lichen, to breathe in the tangle of the forest’s decay and rebirth. She, being one with the beating heart of nature, made her way through familiar, leaf-matted trails, fearful of what lay ahead.

Her heart sank at the discovery. It was a natural death, but still a death. A period of great mourning would follow. Her tears fell as a howl went through the forest that only she could hear.

She sat grasping its horn, and something was gone. Something was lost. Much sadness would follow.

For the great forest always grieved over the loss of a unicorn.

It was taken as given that night walkers quite naturally avoided the area.

Nobody actually knew what these strange apparitions that floated and swirled across the surface of the bog actually were. Of course, there were any number of stories about the phenomena. As to what they were precisely, was anybody’s guess. Generally, the spectrum of opinions fell into two major categories. One school of thought was that it was a troubled Will-o’-the-wisp, or for that matter any number of them, unhappy spirits that restlessly wandered around when the conditions were right. On the other hand there were others that maintained that these things were merely a phosphorescence, brought about by the spontaneous combustion of methane gas, made visible by decomposing organic matter.

On the basis that the latter scientific explanation was incorrect, it seemed that a great gathering of these tormented spirits had taken on a new form. Whereas, individually, these less than contented spirits offered little real harm, save giving innocent passers-by a bit of a fright, what was taking place was quite different, and definitely exceptional. There seemed to be a never-before-seen coalescence going on in the marshy wastes that lay just beyond the outskirts of the village. Why this particular bog and this very village had been selected was something that was not likely to ever be made clear.

A late night cyclist was the first to witness the terrifying event and hastened into the village with the news. There was a dreadful howling and a great swirling mass he told them, and it was building into something of a truly frightful size and power. The great, dark twisting cloud, with a flickering of lights spinning within it, grew with amazing speed as he looked on. Then it grew louder and rose and began moving towards the unsuspecting community. As word got around that this malignant force was coming their way, it became evident that the thing was bent on striking fear into the hearts of the village dwellers; and quite probably something a lot worse.

In no time at all the great seething mass of evil swept slowly through the main street as people ran screaming. All were finding some kind of shelter despite their not knowing if this would protect them. All but one, that is. An old man was walking slowly across the now empty street. He stopped halfway across and seemed to turn to face the oncoming horrifying spectacle. The old man in question had been born both blind and deaf, hence he had made his way through life in a dark and silent world that he had made his own. He had no knowledge of the events unfolding around him. He heard nothing, and he saw nothing, but he felt a strange air movement about his face and hands as he stood motionless.

In the briefest of moments, the thing, whatever it was, vanished, leaving an eerie silence.

It transpired that the evil was eradicated instantly when confronted by an apparent insouciance!

They went out for their regular morning walk together, despite it being so cold.

The couple were almost home, admiring the way the frost had coated the hedgerow at the end of their street, when they heard a droning. They stopped and looked up to find a tiny ultralight plane with a solo pilot. It seemed to be very low.

He said, “That’ll be the guy from the garage; builds them apparently. Looks dangerous to me.”

The thing began spluttering.

She said, “Doesn’t sound good does it?”

He said, “Sounds like he’s running out of fuel.”

The little craft suddenly stopped making any noise at all and began drifting down, disappearing behind distant trees. Moments later, a pillar of smoke came up.

“He must have crashed somewhere!” he said.

“Oh! Dear Lord!” she said. “I hope he’s alright. Do you suppose you can jump out of those things, you know, before they hit the ground?”

“Dunno. Hope so, for his sake,” he said.

“How dreadful,” she said, slowly shaking her head.

“Awful!” he said.

They both shuddered as a bitter wind whipped along the street.

“Come on. Let’s get in,” he said, “before we both come down with pneumonia.”

“Yes. You’re right. We’ll need a hot drink after this, I’m perished,” she said.

They went back into the house, only to find that the electricity was out.

“He must have hit wires,” she muttered, moving off to put something warm on.

He stood in the kitchen rubbing his hands together, looking at the dead kettle.

“Bloody amateurs,” he whispered.

It suddenly occurred to him that he hadn’t seen a pork pie for ages.

He tried to remember a time when he last saw one. He was in the supermarket recently looking at the scotch eggs, but he didn’t see any pork pies. They should have been there, right next to them. He used the internet to find out where they could be purchased. Maybe they had become some sort of specialty item, no longer sold generally, not easily available.

He spent a long time working his way through dozens of sites. He found scotch eggs, pickled eggs, ham and bacon, all sorts of other sliced meats, crumbed pieces, pasties and a great assortment of pies, but he could find no reference to a pork pie. It was as though they had never been invented. As a food item they just didn’t exist! He felt sure that they used to exist; he had extremely vivid memories about them, he knew that.

Then, he took to the road. He toured around all of the supermarkets, butchers, delicatessens, pie shops, patisseries and bakeries, large and small, covering a large sweep of the surrounding area where he lived. Not only could he not find a single one for sale, but he couldn’t find a single person who had ever heard of one.

Suddenly, a violent shudder went through his body.

He’d never been this grateful to hear his bedside alarm go off.

She just loved movies.

She often had ideas about the sort of movie she would like, if only they would make it. On this occasion, talking with her girlfriend, she had a pretty good idea about the movie they should make. Her friend settled back to listen, she’d been there before.

“Listen,” she begins, “I have this absolutely awesome idea for a movie.”

Resigned, her friend says, “Go on.”

“Just imagine it,” she says, wide eyed and looking star struck, “It’s set in space, you know, with spaceships flying around. There are goodies and baddies of course. The good guy has a sister, she’s a princess, but he doesn’t know she’s his sister. Anyway, his sister’s been captured and held prisoner on this really nasty guy’s spaceship. He’s trying to get information about secret stuff out of her. He’s a really horrible man who has to wear some kind of helmet so he can breathe, but he has super powers that enable him to hurt people that get in his way. These bad people have created this death ray thing that can blow up planets. They get it ready to try it out, and it works! That is a really horrible part of the story. Anyway, meanwhile, her brother, although she doesn’t know he’s her brother, gets onboard the ship, so he can rescue her. But, suddenly, the ship they are all on gets some sort of death ray leak and their spaceship gets blown to smithereens!”

Her friend smiles and says, “Sweetie, they’ve already done it, and you’ve got the ending wrong.”

He caught up with his friend leaving school, they often walked home together.

As he came up beside his friend he saw the huge bruise on the side of his face. It started up near his eye and all the way down to the side of his chin. The whole side of his face was blown up like a balloon! They walked along in silence for a while. He didn’t like to ask, but he did. “What happened to your face?”

His friend grinned. “Thought you’d never ask. It was unbelievable really. Down by the pond, that’s where it happened. There I was, minding my own business, when this dude comes up to me and says he’s looking for the church. I said which one because we’ve got two. He says no, there’s only one, and where is it. Well, I looked him over. He was dressed kind of funny, in some sort of silver-coloured jump suit with matching slippers. Anyway, I said there were two and I should know because I live here. He said there was only one true church and all others are visited by heathens. He said that all heathens should be slain! Can you believe that? Slain! I don’t mind telling you, right there and then I was feeling pretty nervous.”

“I bet. Where’d he come from?”

“No idea, but I wasn’t going to ask.”

“No, of course not. So, go on. How did the side of your face get blue and puffed up like that?”

“Well, like I said, at that point I figured him for a nutter and didn’t want to upset him. So I told him that the church next to the post office was probably what he was looking for because most of the locals go there.”

“What’d he say?”

“Nothing at first. He just stood there staring at me. Then, right out of the blue, he punches me hard on the side of the head and takes off.”

“When did all this happen?”

“Yesterday.”

“Is this all true?”

“Nah! Got kicked in the head at rugby.”

There can be sanctuary, sought and found,

A melding of head and heart.

A shelter, a refuge, a haven, a retreat,

Where function and comfort play their part.

–

Peripheral distractions fade away,

A miasma of stillness kicks in.

Each passing moment of silence prevails,

While the flows of stored notions begin.

–

Libraries and galleries may have their draw

For the probing, searching mind.

But these always lack the drop of an anchor,

That a quiet room offers.

A sanctuary of a different kind.

–

The mind undergoes some climate control,

And alternative therapies may take over.

But the thrust of it all is sourced from within.

A place where it stays, moreover.

–

A burgeoning of poetry and prose,

All entrenched in the mysteries of life.

A quiet shuffling of notions,

With solace and serenity running rife.

–

A place where fantasy and reality competes,

In this, a most coveted abode.

Only unmarked mileposts giving directions,

Along this meandering road.

–

Never a rush to seek them out.

Search and they come to light.

There are always places like these,

All hiding in plain sight.

–

With balancing scales always empty,

All at peace with the rhythm of time.

It’s an ambiance right for retreating,

Regardless of prose or rhyme.

–

In a sanctuary, mostly silent,

More a state of mind than a place.

It begins and ends with a stillness,

And remains in a state of grace.

You really don’t need a ganglion cyst,

Especially one that appears on your wrist,

One large enough that it can’t be missed.

If unattended it will persist

And the pain you feel can’t be dismissed.

When you give your hand a gentle twist

Or curl your fingers into a fist,

You know the ache won’t desist,

Until a surgeon’s help you enlist.

It really should go at the top of your list,

No matter how much you want to resist,

Although it’s a shame that such things exist.

Ignoring the problem won’t assist,

There’s one thing on which you can fully insist,

The fact that it’s there… leaves you thoroughly annoyed.