Author: Alexander Fawn

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.

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?”