Author: Alexander Fawn

The strange incident occurred while he was on one of his morning walks.

He took more or less the same route each day. On this occasion he was paying particular attention to the condition of the ground. It was part of his remit to look out for anything worth noting. He had noticed a small hole or two in previous days, but the one he was looking at now was quite large. He was trying to gauge the depth of it when, to his amazement, a small face appeared. He crouched down and their eyes locked. In that moment, they were equally surprised to see each other. He was even more surprised to find that it actually looked like the head of a mole.

He stood transfixed for several minutes.

At first, the creature seemed to be looking around, then it slowly climbed out, showing without doubt that it was indeed a mole. It scurried around for a while sniffing the ground then, as if disturbed, it shot straight back down.

He just stood there blinking.

He couldn’t wait to report it.

He thought about how he wouldn’t have thought twice about it if he’d seen a mole on one of his country walks back home, but here?

Let’s face it, he certainly didn’t expect to see one on the moon!

She had worked another late night in the office.

It wasn’t something that she liked doing, but it didn’t happen that often. Besides, she really enjoyed the rest of the job. It was particularly late on this occasion and she wondered about bus times. It would be too cold to wait around. She may have to catch a taxi. She was heading for the bus stop when it happened. The fact that she had slowed down as she passed the corner dress shop to gaze in at the window’s lit display of the latest fashions, made it easier for the stranger. One moment she was staring in and the next she had come face to face with a well-dressed gentleman of around forty. He just stood smiling at her.

“I do beg your pardon,” he said, raising his hands to indicate that he meant her no harm. “Would you be kind enough to come this way? It will only take a moment.”

With that, he took her gently by the arm and guided her into the side street where he pointed to a closed shop’s dimly lit doorway. Her compliance surprised her. She was somehow convinced that this man would do her no harm.

In the doorway, he said, “What a lovely night, just look at all those twinkling stars.” She felt the watch slip off her wrist, as he said, “Did you know that in New York people can’t look up at the stars?”

She looked up, the night was cold, but the stars where particularly bright.

As he gently took her bag, he went on, “I knew a chap,” he said, as he took out her purse, “he told me that he actually saw the stars above that city one night.” He spent a moment removing the cash he found, nothing else.

He gave a small chuckle. “I know,” he went on, softly easing the bag back under her armpit, “hard to believe.” He carefully removed her gold bangle and continued, “But it was true, you know. He was over there on business. The city had a black out and everybody could see the stars!”

He stepped back, patting his pockets, his eyes smiling. “Thank you so much. I do hope you have a lovely evening.” He turned slowly and continued down the side street.

Left in a daze, she gradually made her way to the bus stop. The timetable said she’d only have to wait five minutes. She had no cash. She would use her card, apparently they could do that now. For some reason she had stopped feeling the cold.

He really was a gentleman, she thought. She looked up.

To the empty shelter, she said, “And he was right about the stars.”

 

 

It takes but a moment to drift up to the stars,

A brief flight through the solitude of space,

Time enough to feel the stillness and peace,

A short spell away from our race.

–

Glide away into uncharted oblivion,

Drift off deeper into the void.

Feel the heat of a solar flare,

Or sail close to an asteroid.

–

No oxygen along the darkened way.

No requirement for this mode of flight.

Coast along through cold dead air,

Float like a satellite.

–

Star studded constellations scattered about,

Speckled images form myths, from ages past.

While the universe buzzes with cosmic energy,

You float through a void that is vast.

–

On such a blind, infinite journey,

Be at one in the universe with grace.

Give thanks for being among the stars,

And stamp your mark upon the place.

It was a strange call, the caller had said it would be something to his advantage.

It was from an admirer. Something special had been arranged, he had said. From a great admirer of the author’s work, he had said. He wouldn’t have thought that little Hooty-Hooter the owl and his loveable woodland friends would have any admirer over the age of six. Not only that, it would be Hooty and not the author that would get the adoration, and not by a grownup. There again, maybe it’s some tycoon whose son or daughter has fallen in love with his endearing feathered character and its adventures, and can afford to repay him for creating such happiness for his offspring. All the same, it was an unexpected call.

What did he have to lose? Tomorrow he’d be going home, back to the old drudgery. Writing children’s books might bring in good money, but there was no excitement in it. He was in a hell of a rut, but the royalties paid for these overseas trips. His books were read by people all over the world. Anyway, this was his last day in the city and although the tower was one of the highest in the world, he hadn’t actually visited it. He called for a taxi to take him across the city to the nominated meeting place at the time he’d been given. When he arrived he was approached by a jovial looking man who introduced himself as a staff member of the corporation owned by the writer’s fervent admirer.

At the base of the tower, he looked around. It was very quiet. They entered the foyer and started up the steps. After several minutes of hard climbing, the novelty and excitement began to wear off. Short of breath, he gasped out, “Why aren’t the lifts operating?”

“Closed for repairs,” came the brief reply.

“Closed? Then what are we doing here?”

“Ah! We have special guest permits.”

“We have?”

“Oh! Yes. It’s like I told you, this is a very special day for you. My benefactor wanted you to experience something that most people could only dream about.”

The kept climbing, until finally, they were nearing the viewing gallery at the top. Utterly exhausted the author said, “Sorry, we have to stop. I can’t go on much longer, I just need to sit for a while.”

It was at this point that the other produced a gun. “I’m sorry. I can’t permit that. Time is of the essence, you see. Keep moving, it’s not far now.”

As they entered the great circular viewing platform, surrounded by giant panes of glass, he saw that one was missing, allowing a cool wind to blow across to where they stood. The man used the gun to force the author to the opening.

“What happens now,” asked the author, fearing the answer.

“Now, you jump.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re depressed.”

“But I’m not depressed.”

“Yes you are.”

“Who says?”

“I do. Me, the reader. There is no admirer; no benefactor. Me, the reader. I say you’re depressed, and so does the note I slipped into your pocket when we met. Your suicide note. No! Don’t touch it!”

“You’re mad! No way I’m going to jump.”

The man moved closer. “True, you may need a gentle nudge.”

“Why?” The author screamed, “For heaven’s sake, why are you doing this?”

“Why? It’s obvious isn’t it? If not me, someone was going to do it.” His face hardened. “You really shouldn’t have killed off Reginald the rabbit, in your latest story, he was my favourite.”

“My God! Is this what this is all about? A bloody rabbit?”

The gun was pressed against his forehead. “Don’t you talk about him like that!”

“But he’s just a rabbit, and not a real one at that!” He was teetering in the open window, stretching out to grip the frames on either side. “Look, I’ll bring him back!”

“You can’t.”

“I can!”

“He’s dead. You killed him, nobody can bring him back.”

“Of course I can ring him back, I’m the author, I can do anything don’t you understand? I can do anything I want.”

“Yes, that’s right, you can do anything you want, like killing Reginald, you swine!”

With that, he gave the writer a shove.

The blond with a purple nose stud sat fingering the photograph.

He was a good-looking man, no doubt about that. Crinkly black hair, swarthy complexion, dark brown eyes and a very thin moustache; perfect! She felt the colour come to her cheeks as she realised she had actually said the word. She looked nervously around the café. Nobody had noticed. He’d sent back saying how he liked the photo she’d sent. He said how much he was looking forward to meeting her. She checked the time. He was late. Held up in traffic probably. The dating site said he had a car and was local, so he wouldn’t have too far to come. She peered out into the darkness. This was her first time. She told him that. He said it was for him as well. That had put her at ease to some degree, but a feeling of self-doubt and anxiety were there constantly.

It was getting later and later. She waited and waited. When the café’s clock told her she’d been there for more than an hour her heart sank. She would have to face it; he wasn’t coming. Feeling both disappointed and foolish she left the café and made her way to the bus stop. She was soon sitting at the back of the bus as it made its way through the city. She was looking at his photo again and dabbing away tears, when the bus braked abruptly. She looked out. A car had crashed head on into a pole on the sidewalk and had ended up sideways across the road. The traffic was down to one lane. They seemed to be having difficulty getting the driver out. Then, just as suddenly, the bus moved on.

Meanwhile, a policeman was having trouble dragging the lifeless body of the man with the thin moustache out of the crumpled vehicle. As he did, a tiny roll of soft cloth wrapped around something hard and held together with an elastic band tumbled out of a jacket pocket. Curious, he opened it up and found a small bottle of chloroform. Now, even more curious, he searched through the dead man’s other pockets and found a large flick-knife and a photo of a blond with a purple nose stud.

The visitor walked through the ward slowly.

The nurse was pointing at a bed containing a young girl. “That’s the Muffet girl, she was eating breakfast when something spooked her. Whatever it was she started running. Gave herself such bad indigestion she was admitted for tests. She’s OK. She’ll be going home tomorrow.”

They moved on. “That’s Mister Jones from the bakery. Apparently he got a rush order for a cake. Burnt himself badly in the rush, as you can see by all his bandages.

At the next bed, she pointed. “She had to be rescued. Found at the bottom of a cliff when she didn’t come home. She lost some sheep she was supposed to be looking after. Despite being told they would turn up eventually, she kept searching, in the dark. Silly girl really, but her bones should set all right.”

Moving on she said, “That’s Mrs Hubbard, terribly bad case of malnutrition. They couldn’t save the dog, I’m afraid.”

Next bed. “This lad was trying to rescue a cat from a well when he fell in himself. Nothing broken; he’ll be fine.”

The nurse paused, shaking her head. “As far as we can make out, the old woman over there was actually living in a shoe with a large number of children that she wasn’t feeding properly. To make matters worse, she would beat them at bedtime. Apparently, they all turned on her and she ended up here in emergency. She faces child abuse charges when she gets out.”

The visitor exclaimed, “My word! I must say, you do seem to have a strange collection here.”

The nurse replied, “What else would you expect to find in the Nursery Land Hospital?”

His grandmother was apparently religious, although he had always harboured grave doubts about it.

Apparently, it was by the merciful grace of the Lord that his grandfather had got drunk and tumbled into the village pond, and didn’t bob back up for three days. Throughout his childhood he’d been subjected to the notion that just about everything came about by the merciful grace of the Lord.

When their neighbour’s boy fell out of their tree and broke his arm, she said it was by the merciful grace of the Lord.

When his uncle’s toolbox fell on his foot and crushed his toes, so that he had to have a special boot made, it was by the merciful grace of the Lord.

It seems that it came about by the merciful grace of the Lord, when the butcher’s three your old daughter died after eating cotoneaster berries in their back yard.

When the vicar’s wife died in their house fire it was by the merciful grace of the Lord.

When the neighbour’s cleaning woman choked on a fishbone and died, it was by the merciful grace of the Lord.

Naturally, it was by the merciful grace of the Lord that his mother’s sisters’ boy suffocated to death, when he was bandaged from head to toe for the school’s production of The Mummy.

When the farmer that his Dad knew from his army days shot himself while cleaning his rifle, this too was by the merciful grace of the Lord.

When the scoutmaster’s boy got electrocuted and died after pushing the handle of a teaspoon into a wall socket, it was deemed to be by the merciful grace of the Lord.

There seemed to be no doubt that it was by the merciful grace of the Lord, when the nice lady who worked in the local library was crushed to death when her bookcase holding her home collection of health manuals came away from her living room wall.

And on the occasion of his best school friend’s whole family perishing when a gas leak caused their holiday caravan to explode, it was by the merciful grace of the Lord.

All these religious affirmations finally stopped, on the occasion of the public procession of army manoeuvres rumbling through the local town’s high street. When, on leaning forward to get a better view, his grandmother fell under the track of an oncoming tank.

On this occasion, he had no compunction at all about considering it to be an event that had truly been brought about by the merciful grace of the Lord.

The cup with the tealeaves fell from the old lady’s hand.

It hit the floor and smashed into several pieces of china, each piece dotted with wet leaves. She had been reading tealeaves since she was very young, under the guidance of her long departed mother. She had been peering at them for decades, she knew all the symbols. People often came to her for a reading. Nothing like this had ever happened before. Was it clumsiness? Was it that she’d had the briefest glimpse of the death symbol high up on the side of the cup? She couldn’t be sure. She knelt and began gathering up the fragments. She froze when she saw it again, still there and undisturbed, the symbol she understood, but had never actually seen before. She knew he needed to be told.

As she continued collecting pieces in the palm of her hand, she reflected on the fact that the visitor that stood next to her looking on, was a healthy looking twenty-something man who was not likely to pass away from natural causes. She knew that this was leading to something tragic. Something sudden and unexpected. Did she really need to tell him? She took a deep breath and slowly stood up, apologizing and tipping the bits into a bin. “I’m so sorry, dear. That was very clumsy of me.”

The young man, now looking quite anxious, went to speak, then shook his head. “No need to apologise,” he said, finally.

She glanced back at the bin. “I shall have to go looking for another one.” She winced. “You can’t read from just any cup, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know. I’m sorry too. About the cup, I mean. He put his hands together as though in prayer. “So, what does it mean then?”

Her eyebrows raised. “Mean?”

“Yes, about the reading, I mean?”

“Oh! Nothing. Just a silly accident on my part, I’m afraid.” There! She’d said it! She had told him that it meant nothing, and she couldn’t take it back. After rinsing her hands under the tap and drying them she held out the note he’d given her.

“No,” he said, looking surprised. “I think I should still pay you, after all…”

She cut him off. “No dear, you don’t understand. It would bring me bad luck if I were to take money when no reading was given.” There! There she goes again, more lies.

She saw him too the door.

He thanked her again, before making his way back to his shiny red sports car.

“Drive safely!” she called.

Not that it would do any good.

She was sitting at her laptop reading a short story.

It was her habit to sit at her screen around the same time in the evenings. Reading short stories posted on a blog was just one of her regular activities. The story was titled ‘The Key’, and began with the opening line ‘It was a bitterly cold wind that swept down the street, and stamping his feet didn’t help’. She read it to the end; first she smiled, then she frowned. After a short pause, she left the blog site and went in search of Donald’s latest tweet.

A few days later, the reader was visiting the writer. After being there a while, she said, “I read your latest story.”

“Oh! Yes, did you like it?”

“Well, I did, but…”

The writer smiled. “Go on.”

“OK. This woman, the wife, she knew about the key, I get that, but how would she know that they were planning to elope? And how could she know where and when they planned to meet?”

He grimaced, “I have to leave some things for the reader to work out for themselves. I can’t be expected to do all the work.”

“You can’t?”

“No. Not really. For instance, in this case there are a number of ways the wife could have found out.”

“A number of ways, you say.”

“Well, to be honest, several dozen, but you’d need to have the persona of a fiction writer to dream that many up.”

“So, she found out by accident?”

“Not necessarily. She already knew basically what was going on, so she would have found a way; maybe email, messages, phone or basic eavesdropping. Maybe all of these. She was obviously resourceful, she would have found a way to monitor him. Remember, she could have got a lot more detailed information from the girlfriend when she visited.”

“Yes, the girlfriend, of course we only assume that she didn’t survive; absolutely no information about that.”

The writer frowned heavily, “Naturally, I do know what happened the day the wife visited the girlfriend, but I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh! Why not?”

“It… it was horrible!”

If you’re searching for the best,

Better than all the rest,

Presumably this is said in jest,

For there really is no test.

–

You can do the best,

Or try the best,

Or look your best,

Or own the best.

–

You can be best dressed

In your Sunday best,

With others impressed,

But there is no test.

–

You may guess what’s best,

When seeking the best,

With no reliable test,

You’ll find yourself stressed.

–

You’ll be very hard pressed,

When judging the best,

You can ignore the rest,

It can only be guessed.

–

So, having addressed

The quest for the best.

One can only suggest,

You only guess at what’s best.