Author: Alexander Fawn

She stood in a special place, allowing the joyful feelings of a decade ago to wash over her.

She embraced the living thing, pushing her cheek into the patterns of its rough surface. An outer skin that hid the living power deep within. Her arms held the trunk in a tight embrace. With eyes closed, she breathed in the tang of sap and the surrounding woodland. This was her favourite tree. This was a return; this was a confirmation of a special love pact made by a child, and this was goodbye.

It was only a tiny wood, so very close to her old home. Such a small patch of shrubs and trees, but a place full of magic all the same. It had been her wonderland before they moved away. Her father no longer having work when the old timber mill closed. The family having to resettle elsewhere. Even now, she recalls the bitter sadness of it at the age of eight. She remembers the response when she had begged her parents to stay. Their insistence that it was simply part of life that sometimes you had to move on, was at the time, and is seen now, as perfectly reasonable. Back then, to a young girl first learning about nature, it was a wrench away from some kind of newly found ownership.

She smiled softly into the old craggy bark, remembering the jibes from her playmates, who without any real malice, called her a tree hugger.

She had passed the big yellow machines and the men in their bright jackets on the way to her reunion. Skirting the main activities she had manage to get to the spot unseen. She knew there was no stopping it. She had seen it time after time on television, demonstrators chanting, protesters chained and padlocked to machinery, people up trees; all to no avail. Land clearing for a road, a new housing development, just about anything where trees were not needed, it was just something that had to happen. She wasn’t entirely comfortable with her acceptance of such things. To be here now, half waiting for some gruff voice yelling and ordering her to leave the area was proof enough that she cared. For her now, it was simply a matter of letting go.

As she made her way back to the bus that would take her home, the hum and rattle of machinery and the buzz of chainsaws slowly faded.

He had always found it ironic that his powers made him an outcast.

The young man wasn’t able to live among others. He wasn’t able to make friends and enjoy the social life that other eighteen-year-olds could. Even if he could become fully in control of his abilities, he’d be nervous of inadvertently letting loose with a burst of magic that would be his downfall. He could so easily slip from the status of outcast further down into the status of being undesirable, unwanted, and eventually, criminal. Most of the time he was able to regulate his supernatural abilities, but there were times when his concentration faltered and he’d inadvertently demonstrate something in public. Like the time he’d sent a tiny fireball into the magazine rack in the news agency, when the man behind the counter had been rude to him. Fortunately, he was able to put it out, leaving only a few blackened edges and a stink of smoke before quickly moving on.

That was quite a while ago now, and he’d moved away from the location, but it had been a wakeup call for him and he had since spent a great deal of time practicing. The previously, little-understood mind control aspect of it all, was now much better managed. Although he derived a lot of pleasure from using his powers to make things happen, he was very careful to perform these in total privacy. Sitting now, at the back of the old, abandoned warehouse, he concentrated on the discarded plastic shopping bag that the wind had blown his way.

Idly, and with very little effort, he began the process of heating the bag up. He smiled, when after a few seconds, it stopped rolling around. It shrunk and became still. He watched as it gradually melted down into a grey, blistered ball. After sitting looking at it for a while, he had it rise slowly into the air and then hover on the spot. Then he had it catch fire. It was now a small black ball of melted plastic, wrapped in flames and spinning slowly in mid-air.

He willed it to travel up further before drifting off to one side. It kept moving until it was directly over an old oil drum. It hung there, burning. Not knowing what the drum contained, he decided to put it out. Moments later, a small raincloud appeared above it and a steady rain fell, soaking it for a few seconds. Once out, he let the thing drop into the bin with a clang that made him grin. However, at that moment, his look turned to fear as he realised the man standing at the corner of the building must have witnessed the whole thing. He had to think fast.

The stranger looked older than him and gave the impression that he was a fellow street person. He staggered forward, clutching a bottle with his mouth hanging open. He would obviously be curious and full of questions. The younger man stood and faced him. He smiled and said, “Hello, friend. You’ve seen nothing strange here.” The man blinked a few times and said, “No, you’re right. I’ve seen nothing strange here,” and kept walking, taking an occasional swig from his bottle. The young man had long felt that he had the ability to perform mind control, but he had never before had the opportunity to put it into practice.

One thing was for sure; day by day his powers were growing.

He had never been a smoker, but watching others provided a lot of entertainment.

His office was on the third floor and his window gave him an excellent view of the spot where smokers gathered regularly. He would often sit, staring down for untold minutes, observing the comings and goings. It was his own private one-man gallery. He knew what his window looked like from down there. It was a large, tinted and impenetrable square of shiny glass. In short, no one knew they were being watched. He had his favourites, of course. He could sit in on mild seductions as they played out. People smoking and flirting at the same time. He had read somewhere that the word ‘smirting’ had been dreamt up to describe the practice.

Then there were the swaggerers that moved about puffing and flicking ash; these he called the posers. Occasionally he’d be treated to the furtive character with a guilt complex; continuously checking up and down the street, presumably looking out for anybody that might recognise them. He had been watching all this drama unfold for several years, and had only occasionally had twinges of conscience, regarding the amount of time he spent doing it. That was, until recently, when he had an uncomfortable experience with the young guy whose job it was to distribute any papers, mostly legal, that needed to be in hard copy format.

The truth of the matter being that he was caught. Caught in the act of gazing out of the window for a number of minutes, the exact timing of it unknown, instead of carrying out those duties for which he was paid. The lad had only just started with the company and had obviously entered without knocking. He just stood there smirking. That’s when it began. After that, the smartarse would knock, but only after walking up to the door very slowly, and making it quite obvious that he was trying to catch a glimpse through the frosted glass of his office. The whole affair had taken the shine off what had been a most enjoyable pastime. Meanwhile, it had to be said that the kid wasn’t well liked around the offices, owing to his cocky attitude and his general smugness.

The manner in which this all got turned around in such a brief and unexpected moment a few weeks later, was truly remarkable. It was fairly late in the working day when he happened to be indulging himself, peering out onto a quiet street. Two lads walked to the spot and both lit cigarettes. They were obviously not happy with each other. Body language alone told the watcher that they were arguing. It all became heated and fists started to fly. He looked on for several minutes as they rolled around on the ground exchanging wild punches. It all stopped suddenly when one of them stood up. The other lay still, very still. It was only at this point that it became evident that the one on the ground was the smarty pants from his office.

At first, as he watched the boy bend over checking for a pulse, he had a natural urge to phone the police and report what he’d seen. The boy stood again, looking sickly pale and looking franticly for any potential witnesses. After looking around, making sure he was leaving nothing behind, he walked away slowly, disappearing out of view.

Naturally, ongoing enquiries were made, following the discovery of the body and the immediate headlines. Several people in his office were spoken to with the hope of finding any possible witnesses. He himself was questioned, but not in his office, not near his window. He made sure he was elsewhere in the building when he spoke to the police. To further put himself out of the picture, he told the officer he was in a meeting during the estimated time of the attack. Of course, such a minor falsehood went by unnoticed. In the weeks that followed, any feelings of guilt or remorse regarding his silence slowly faded. In fact, it was all he could do to refrain from thinking kindly about the boy that got away.

After all, watching others provided such a lot of entertainment.

When the elderly lady in number fourteen went to her mailbox she got a surprise.

She nearly missed the small piece of paper folded neatly in half. She could just make out that it was a handwritten note. She took it back inside and found her glasses. She was feeling curious and a little excited. She nestled into her armchair and read.

Hello

I just wanted to say that I’ve always been impressed with the way you keep your front garden looking so lovely. You probably find my note rather strange, but I live a few streets from here and walk past it sometimes when I return home by bus, like today. My husband past away recently and as I was leaving for his funeral this morning, I ran over my cat. When I arrived there I was told that I had the wrong date and the service was yesterday. Then, when I went to leave, my car wouldn’t start and I had to have it towed to a garage. That’s why I came home by bus today, past your beautiful garden.

I hope you understand,

I just had to say something really positive, to alleviate all the negativity of my day.

Thanks.

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.