Author: Alexander Fawn

The boy was laying in the bed, watching clouds move across the room’s window.

He’d had a restless night. As far as he could remember, he’d been barely conscious when they brought him in. Noises outside seemed to be getting louder. The door swung open and a man in a white lab coat entered.

He smiled and said, “Good morning. Jack, is it?”

The boy said, “Yes.”

“Admitted yesterday, I understand.”

“Yes.”

“Get much sleep?”

“Not a lot.”

“No. You probably wouldn’t. How’s your headache?”

“A bit better, I think.”

The doctor bent over him, examining his head. “I understand you had quite a fall.”

“Yes.”

“Your skull x-ray doesn’t show anything more than a very small fracture.”

He picked up the notes. “I see you also complained of loss of balance. Not unusual in these cases. Some nausea and vomiting. That’s normal too. No blurred vision, I see.” He looked up. “Any stiffness in the neck?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

The doctor nodded. “I think it’s best if we keep you in for another night, just so we can keep an eye on you. I’m told you have a friend here that took a bit of a tumble as well.”

“I wouldn’t call her a friend.”

“You wouldn’t?”

“Well, I don’t really know her. We only met yesterday.”

“Oh! I was under the impression you worked together.”

“Her! No way. She’s completely loopy.”

The doctor looked at the time, then pulled up a chair. “Loopy, you say. I’m intrigued. I understood that you were doing something together at the time of the accident.”

“It wasn’t an accident!”

“It wasn’t?”

“No. The crazy kid hit me with her bucket. I think that’s what did the damage. The ground up there was covered with long grass. Nothing to crack your head on, anyway.”

The doctor showed signs of amazement as he asked, “so, you’re saying that this girl attacked you?”

“Absolutely, she did.”

“And why would she do that?”

The boy wriggled a bit. “We got into an argument.”

“What about?”

“Well, we were supposed to be getting water. That’s what the bucket was for. She asked me if I’d climb the hill with her so that when the bucket was full and too heavy for one person to manage on their own, we could carry it back down between us.” The boy started crying, but went on. “I should have known something was wrong. Who the hell puts a well on top of a hill? I guess I just felt sorry for her.” He took a tissue and blew his nose. He went on, “anyway, it was pretty steep and when we got to the top there wasn’t any kind of well up there, only a dent.”

The doctor, still with full attention, said, “Dent?”

“That’s right, just a dent in the ground, with just a dribble of water in it. It was probably a puddle that hadn’t soaked away after recent rain.” He blew again. “I mean, the kid’s crazy. She just stood there giggling and that’s when the argument started. After her saying that she thought it was such a cool joke and me telling her she was a nutter, she swung the bucket at my head. Of course, I fell over and began falling back down. Next minute she’s rolling next to me still giggling and telling me how much fun it was!”

At this point, the doctor, not being at all sure whether his patient was delusional, looked at the time again and stood up. “OK. Of course, all that is for others to sort out, I really must be moving on.”

At the door he said, “Try to get a better sleep tonight. I’ll see you again in the morning.”

Out in the hallway, he paused for a moment. He wasn’t looking forward to it, but he felt obliged to pay a visit to Jill.

Yet another agent was trying to track down the unidentified shooter.

This was the illusive man that the crime bosses used to have people removed. This was the man, who was now crouched comfortably behind a row of bushes. He had a clear view of the shop’s entrance. The intended victim had been seen entering the hardware store, where he worked. He would be coming out soon after twelve to walk the short distance to the café where he would have lunch. His habits were known. They had been carefully recorded over several days by the man with the telescopic rifle. The secret service undercover agent that worked in the store was aware that the man used by the syndicate to make people disappear would like to add him to his list.

The man he was waiting for came out. He readied the weapon. As he did, he felt the cold muzzle of the gun come to rest on the back of his neck. He froze. An arm came round and his rifle was gently removed. They both stood up slowly. The man behind slipped the cuffs on.

The decoy, disguised as the agent, and despite his wearing a bulletproof vest, was relieved to receive the agent’s wave.

The shooter’s days were over.

 

Crypto money up, Crypto money down,

Crypto money in the air, nine years old;

All like it up, none like it down,

Some like it in their wallet, nine years old.

The students were sitting in the shelter waiting for their respective buses.

One said to the other, “Did you know that the coefficient of linear expansion is the rate of change of unit length, per unit degree change in temperature?”

His friend smirked. “Oh! I’m sure it is.”

“It is.”

“I wouldn’t know, but there again you probably wouldn’t get too excited if I told you that Antonio Vivaldi, the Italian composer was called the Red Priest because he was also a priest and he had red hair.”

“No, I wouldn’t, but I might think you’re making it up.”

“I’m not, you know.”

“OK. Consider this. Currently, we’re learning about the square roots of negative numbers. Zero has one square root, which is 0. An imaginary number, when squared, gives a negative result. I mean, how cool is that?”

“Yes, OK. It’s a case of you with science versus me with art, I suppose. What if I told you that Vincent van Gogh only ever sold one of his paintings, or that it took Leonardo da Vinci fourteen years to complete the Mona Lisa?”

“Maybe, but I think it’s far more significant that the Fibonacci sequence states that each number in the sequence is the sum of the two numbers that precede it, and that the spiral shapes of sunflowers follow the Fibonacci sequence.”

“OK. What about the fact that the painter Pierre-Auguste Renoir had such debilitating rheumatoid arthritis in his hands that he had to lash a brush to his fingers in order to paint.”

“Sure, that’s sad, but how about the Riemann Hypothesis, the biggest and most mysterious mathematical problem that deals with the distribution of prime numbers that has never been solved.”

What if I told you that Jean-Baptiste Lully, the French music conductor, who used a staff instead of a baton, hit his toe with it, got gangrene and eventually died of blood poisoning.

“How about Euler’s identity, regarded as the most beautiful equation because it encompasses the five neutral constants in mathematics.”

“Hah! As amazing as that is, we’re going to have to agree that art is subjective while science is objective, and call it quits.”

“OK, but why call it quits?”

“Because this is my bus. See you tomorrow.”

The dog sat watching his master and mistress in the garden.

He was reading. He paused to think about how much he enjoyed coming out to sit at this small table. He often came here to read a book when the weather was right. He watched her picking something. The book he was reading wasn’t the best. His friend had recommended something. He couldn’t remember the title, but he was sure he’d written it down; on a napkin. They were out with their friends for a meal. His was delicious. He thought about how he’d enjoyed the potatoes so much that he had asked the waiter about them. He said they were Oca, more commonly referred to as New Zealand Yam. He’d never heard of it. He looked over to where she was doing something with the soil; maybe weeding. He wondered whether Oca could be grown in the garden. He would ask her later. His mouth watered just thinking about it.

She was pruning. Just snipping bits off here and there. She felt she was just having fun, rather than making any real difference in the garden. She had never thought of herself as a gardener. She thought about how much her mother loved it. She would spend endless hours in their back garden. She had spent ten minutes plucking dead leaves off of their small apple tree in the corner. She had no real idea whether you did that to an apple tree. It didn’t matter on a weekend. It was relaxation time, wasn’t it? After all, they both worked. She looked back. He was still reading. He loves his reading. What will I get tonight? We can have chicken. She carried her garden bin to another spot. Yes, she could do one of his favourites, Chicken Kashmiri. Maybe this time she would up the chili powder to one teaspoon.

He was laying on the back door mat. He watched them. She kept walking around the garden, but he didn’t move much. He just sat at the table. They didn’t do this very often, just once in a while. On days like this he didn’t get a walk. That was all right, he was quite comfortable where he was. They didn’t talk much when this happens. He felt a rumble in his stomach. He didn’t like the stuff she put down last week. It tasted really bad. Just couldn’t eat it. Left most of it. He guessed, from her tone, she was disappointed. He was thinking, I hope she got something different when she shopped this morning. Anyway, they’ve been in the garden a long time. It’s getting late. He thought, they’ll be feeding me soon.

They sat across from one another making small talk.

The traffic was always busy in this part of town. The older man had plenty of time to watch his old school go by. He thought about his rotten maths teacher. She was an overweight woman with a bad attitude. He drifted back to the day the snotty-nosed kid from second year found him smoking behind the library. He remembers how he’d gone to the old bat and reported him. She had him in detention for three days. Getting home late from school each night had meant a cuff round the back of his head from his old man. He smiled at the thought that no one could actually link him to the kid ending up in hospital with a broken nose.

He mumbled, “God! How I hate do-gooders; always interfering…” He looked up, realising he’d voiced his thoughts.

The younger guy opposite looked a bit uncomfortable. He said, “Anyway, you were telling me…”

“Yes, that’s right. Well, you know what it’s like when you leave a cupboard door half open so that it reminds you that you’re in the middle of doing something, then some do-gooder comes along and closes the bloody thing?” He grimaced. “You’d be surprised how stuff like that builds up.”

His companion shrugged. “He did that?”

“He did, once too often!”

“But, the gun?”

“Oh! That? It just happened to be there.”

He sighed and sat back. The seat was comfortable enough, but the handcuffs were beginning to chafe.

The park was bustling with activity, not so easy for the old woman walking her dog.

She would sit for a while at the next seat. Her dog was just a pup, quite small, but thankfully well behaved, despite being navigated through the jostling crowds streaming along the paths. She hadn’t had him long, but already, he had become a wonderful companion. Her daughter had convinced her to get him.

She spotted a bench with a small girl sitting at one end. She smiled down at the girl as she settled, getting the dog to sit by her feet. She was aware of the girl’s sad face. She looked lonely.

The old woman said, “No mummy looking after you?”

The girl brightened a little. “No. Just my big sister.” She pointed. “That’s her on top of the climbing frame. She’s good at climbing.”

The woman nodded. “I can see that.” She looked into the child’s eyes. “If you don’t mind me saying so, you look rather sad.”

The girl nodded, saying, “Lucy died last week.”

The woman hid her surprise and asked casually, “Lucy?”

“Yes. Lucy, my cat. Well, not just mine, she belonged to the whole family, but I loved her more than anybody.”

“And that made you feel very unhappy, I’m sure.”

“Oh! I felt a lot better about it when I found out what happens, you know, after.”

“After?”

“You know, what happens after. Yes. It was all explained to me. I suppose it’s because I’m grown up enough now to be told about things.”

The lady bent to stroke her dog.

The girl watched with interest, she asked, “What’s it called?”

“He’s called Toby. I’m sure he’d like to know what happens after.”

“You don’t know?”

“I probably do, but my memory’s not as good as it was. Perhaps you could tell me?”

The girl straightened, obviously happy to tell the other what she knew. “Daddy explained about the happy pet’s place; where they all go to live.”

“Heaven, do you mean?”

She shook her head. “No. It’s a special entrance.”

“I see. Go on.”

“They’re all very happy there. Daddy says it’s very big because all the pets go there; cats, dogs, birds, rabbits, mice, you know, all of them.”

The old lady smiled and said, “Yes, it sounds wonderful!”

“Oh! It is. Daddy says at the happy pet place all the animals are happy. He said they miss their owners, of course, but apart from that, they have heaps of places they can run around in, lots of food and the weather is always nice. Then, when the time comes, their owners collect them and the gates open, and you go in.”

Just then, her sister called.

“We have to go now,” the girl said. “We live over there,” she explained, by pointing past the play area. She looked down. “Bye Toby,” she said, and ran off.

The old woman stroked her dog again and said, “so many different ideas about what’ll become of us.” She watched the girl and her sister running home and whispered, “I think I like that version.”

The airport was crowded, due to the number of flight delays flashing on the boards.

The man in the suit with the briefcase sat working out just how horribly late the delay would make him. He’d been staring at his watch for a while, mumbling, when he looked up with a start. He hadn’t noticed the elderly, shabbily-dressed man sitting opposite. Slightly embarrassed, he said, “Four hour delay! Can you believe that? It’s unreal!”

The man rubbed at his stubble and said, “There are times when belief is all you’ve got. As to whether it’s unreal or not, well, philosophers have been arguing about the concept of reality for centuries. As far as I know, they still haven’t figured it out.”

Still annoyed with his flight’s long delay and confused about what the stranger was saying, he rolled his shoulders, stretched his arms and said, “Sorry. Wasn’t following that. Been sitting here an hour with three more to go.” He stood and stretched some more. Stepping forward, he said, “I’m in sales, on my way to an all-day meeting that I’m going to be very late for.” He smiled and put out his hand. They shook.

The other said, “Pleased to meet you. I’m a vagrant.”

The traveller sat back down, looked around and raised his eyebrows. “You’re a vagrant, you say?”

“A vagrant, yes. A tramp, if you like. A hobo, wanderer, vagabond, drifter, transient, or a homeless person perhaps.” He puffed out his lips. “You know, one of those people you see wandering around aimlessly, eking out a simple existence with no visible means of support.” He grinned.

The other went to say something.

“Oh! Yes. To answer your unasked question, there’s a cold wind blowing out there. It’s much nicer in here.”

The man looked out through the large windows, and said, “I see what you mean.” He sat back, staring at the scruffy individual with newfound interest. “Although, I’m not sure that I understand what you mean about things being unreal,” he said, aware of a sense of growing curiosity.

The vagrant rubbed his knees through dirty jeans. “Albert Einstein was right, you know. He said, reality is only an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.”

“He said that, did he?”

“He did.”

“I must say, to be honest, it’s hard for me to equate all this with everyday life.”

The old tramp sat with his head down, thinking for a moment. He looked up. “OK. Think about the popularity of those ‘Reality TV shows’. Where’s the reality in that? Then, just to make matters worse they come up with virtual reality.”

“Yes… I see your point.”

“And another thing. Dead people don’t clap.”

“Dead people?”

“Yes, dead people. All those recordings of people clapping; you know, on comedy shows. TV shows, where there’s no audience, just some clown with his fingers on a volume control, editing in canned laughter and applause. Somebody says something funny and presto, the audience cracks up.”

“Yes, but dead people?”

“Sure, just think about it. Think about when the show was made, calculate how many years have gone by since then; see what I mean? Simple arithmetic really.”

“I see.”

“None of this helps anybody get a grip on reality, does it?”

“No. I suppose not.”

The old man looked up at the gallery above the escalator. He up stood slowly. “It’s probably warmer up there,” he mumbled, then nodded at the delayed traveller. “Well then, there you are. It’s like I said. If philosophers through the centuries couldn’t figure it out, what chance have we got?”

With that, he gave a little wave and moved off through the milling passengers.

She sat alone by the window staring out.

This was the worst part of it all, the waiting; the endless waiting. Waiting for what, enlightenment? She wasn’t sure. The sun began to dip over distant trees. Soon her vigil will have lost the light. Before long the view will have slowly morphed into dusk and then beyond. She would stay though. This was the place to be; the place to work it out. She needed to move through it. That was what would give her the strength and the will to take it step by step. To see it through to the end.

Thinking about why she was there, doing what she was doing, made her head spin. For her, it was an ongoing struggle to continually discard the interference of new ideas and concepts that only served to cloud her thinking. She was fully aware that her mental processes, together with her ability to facilitate any form of truly complex or sophisticated thinking, such as coming to grips with those currently swamping her, were not capable of generating original ideas. Therefore, her method of using a totally logical approach to address her situation would inevitably fail. That much was clear.

She knew that complex thinking, being one of her natural attributes, gave her the ability to work the whole thing out. Sitting here, in her world, looking out into the real world was, in some way, therapeutic. Beyond this, the possibility of bringing about an epiphany was always within reach. Deep down, she knew that the only logical approach was to seek a solution employing both clear thinking and patience as a foundation. Despite this, she felt that her previously high level of perseverance was wearing thin.

He entered the room and asked what she was doing.

With the deepest of sighs, she said, “Nothing much.”

The proponents of the coming of the antichrist where simply on the wrong track.

For starters, they were all expecting a man. Of course, that was never going to work. Some demonic figure in the guise of an upstanding citizen? I don’t think so. If ‘Old Nick’ wanted to come into the world to truly screw things up, after biding his time for so long, he’d certainly be far more cunning than that. And that’s how it happened, totally unnoticed, several years back, in a disused warehouse.

Nobody knows how it actually came about. Was it some stray animal that gave it birth? Was it some unseen fermentation of molecules, or a mere buzzing of atoms? Who knows? But the result, in that dingy corner of a deserted building that no one had visited for years, the result… another immaculate conception. An infant girl, born, who knows how? Laying on a pile of discarded sacks. The details of it are irrelevant, considering what was to come.

Now, a girl, not twenty, undernourished and in poor health, she begs on the streets. She wanders, as if aimlessly, but this is not the case.

The poet, Yeats, writing about such an event said that something slouches towards Bethlehem. But now, in this case, this vagrant, in filthy tattered rags, travels slowly, with undetected determination, towards the White House.