Author: Alexander Fawn

The ageing neighbour was in full flight.

The two younger men from the street stood patiently listening. They were used to him getting really wound up about things. They also knew that he suffered from short term memory loss.

The old man was shaking his head. “As for him… He’s a criminal, pure and simple,” he said. “These local politicians, they’re all the same, they’re out for themselves, no one else, just themselves. They’ll rob you blind if you let them!”

He looked around and lowered his voice.

“That what’s-his-name, you know, the guy with the big moustache, he’s been giving all the best contracts to his cousin. Between them they must be making millions. I tell you, these people have no conscious. Why, only last week the guy in the post office was telling me that the mayor had the road that goes past his place upgraded. Bloody thing doesn’t really go anywhere!” He winked. “Accept to his house, of course.”

At this point the old man waved at a passing car.

The two men glanced at each other.

He turned back to his audience. “Ah! Yes, well…” He looked troubled. “Sorry, I can’t remember what I was saying!”

One of the men looked over the old man’s shoulder, nodded and said, “You were telling us about your garden.”

She looked up from her knitting.

“Hallo, dear, what a surprise. I thought you’d left for good. Changed your mind did you? Bonzo will be pleased; he hasn’t been walked for days. Let me just finish this and I’ll put the kettle on.

He stood looking around. Nothing had changed. What was he expecting? No reason to assume that his leaving would bring about any dramatic changes in this old woman’s life. She was so very much in a world of her own. He looked on as she put her knitting down and got slowly to her feet. He could see how much effort it was for her to move around. He wanted to help, but he couldn’t.

From the kitchen, she called out, “The vicar’s daughter came back on Tuesday; she had a wonderful time I hear.” Cups and spoons rattled, as she carried the tray in. She put it down on the low table, carefully. “There,” she said, “do sit down.” She stood eyeing him for a moment. “Why are you just standing there like that? Don’t you want your tea?”

He managed to move his arms a little.

She fumbled for her glasses, muttering, “I don’t need them when I’m knitting, once you have learned how to knit, you know…” She put them on.

She suddenly looked perplexed. “Look, don’t get me wrong, dear, it’s lovely to see you back, but, if that’s you, who did we bury last week?”

It was an expensive thing to do, but it would solve all his problems.

The Erasure Corporation had been operating for a number of years, with their plush offices located in one of the city’s towers. Only success stories came out of the place. He was now in a position to get treatment. He had been thinking about it recently. They’d been bickering for days now. She was expecting him to call round tonight. Well, she’d be disappointed. Their website had warned about the extensive pre-treatment form and he had arrived early for his appointment, knowing that he’d never been particularly good at filling these things out. It had been completed and handed to the lady at the front desk. As he sat waiting, thoughts of her, of them, of all of it came crowding in. He shuddered, then smiled, thinking, not for long!

The desk lady approached. “You can go in now. Please follow me.”

They entered a nicely appointed room, with a desk and two chairs. Sitting in one was a young man in a suit, smiling. The woman left, closing the door. He took in the array of equipment against one wall, central to which was a comfortable looking couch. The man, who according to the information brochure was a doctor, waved at the seat. He sat.

“Good morning,” the doctor said, picking up a folder.

Looking back over his shoulder at the equipment, he replied, “Good morning. I take it that’s it, over there, is it?”

“It is indeed.”

“I must say, I’m a bit nervous; only natural, I’m sure.”

“Yes, of course, quite natural, as you say. I would point out however that over the years the corporation has improved the process radically. Whereas the actual treatment time was more than an hour in earlier times, we now provide the same service in around forty seconds.”

“Wow! Yes, that’s impressive.”

The doctor looked down at the form. “I see you have made a few side notes.”

The other nodded.

“I just need to clarify one or two points with you, is that all right?”

“Yes, of course.”

The doctor began flipping through the pages. “I see you have clearly defined the subject due for erasure with full details. Her name, address, etc. All properly filled in, but you added a note somewhere… yes, here it is. You allude here to a visit to a local park that you wanted to… I quote, ‘hold onto’. Is that right?”

“Yes, please.”

With eyebrows raised, he asked, “I must say at this point; this is an unusual request. Your reasoning for this?”

The other shrugged. “Well, there were times, obviously, when things were going well with us. You know, happy times.”

The doctor sat back. “I had better explain. The purpose of the erasure program is to remove entirely any memory you have of a particular person. That part of your brain, the memory sector, is targeted. The person, along with any memories of a relationship that once existed are expunged.”

The other sat in silence for a while, then murmured, “The park…”

“Pardon?”

“That day in the park. We were so happy!”

“Yes, but…”

“Flowers.”

“Flowers?”

“She had flowers.”

“I don’t…”

“Yes. She had flowers stuck in the band of her hat.”

“Yes, I see, but you…”

“She looked so pretty. We walked along the path that went around the lake. We just walked and talked. Must have been there for hours, walking and…”

The young doctor rapped knuckles gently on his desk. “Look, I think I need to stop you there!”

The man snapped out of it and looked up.

The doctor leant forward on his desk with his fingers clasped, smiling. He spoke softly. “We do find that in some cases a patient is simply not ready. It is our policy that in such situations any money paid is returned in full.”

The man sat thinking for some time, before standing up.

It was late afternoon when he left the building, having signed all of the required retraction papers.

He left the building and walked quickly up the street.

He was just in time for the florist.

Soon after, he knocked on her door…

It wasn’t the easiest of roads to cross at the best of times.

The elderly man with the walker-frame managed to cross the road, but was having trouble mounting a steep kerb on the other side.

The younger man seeing that he was having trouble, approached saying, “Do you need any help there?”

He received a bitter look from the old man, who snarled, “Try minding your own business, why don’t you?”

“OK. I thought…”

“That’s the trouble with people like you. You don’t think. You have no idea what it’s like to be disabled like this!”

The other stepped back, looking a little dizzy for a moment. He shook his head. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

The old man eyed him suspiciously. “Oh! Yes?”

The young man tried to smile. “I have a brain disorder, it’s called Creutzfeldt – Jakob disease. I’m told I have a month at the most.”

The other frowned. “I’m sorry, mate. How was I to know?” He looked down at the kerb. “I’d appreciate it if you could hold onto my arm while I lift the walker.”

“Of course.”

The disabled man made it up onto the footpath. “Thank you very much,” he said.

“Will you be all right now?”

“Yes. Thanks again.”

They both made their way along the footpath towards the main entrance to the shopping centre.

Naturally, the young man got there first. He turned and gave a small wave and a smile as he went in.

The old man paused, squinting. Was it a smile or a grin?

There’s a stand of trees across the road;

Trees that have stood for an age.

They line the edge of a forest,

Its spread is hard to gage.

–

Entry is made by forest trails,

With pathways scattered between.

There is no such thing as a right path to take,

When where you are headed, matters no more

Than some notion of where you’ve been.

–

There’s a golden floor of matted needles,

With pine cones scattered about.

Beaded leaves glisten in the morning sun,

While birdcalls ring throughout.

–

There are towering columns of trees reaching up,

Ancient pillars with time on their side.

Moons come and go and seasons pass.

They tell of decades of holding fast;

Through sun and rain they abide.

–

Between these, a thick blanket of leaves lay strewn,

For some, time has painted them black.

There are mossy stumps and fallen twigs

On either side of the track.

–

It’s a world of growth and renewal,

With seeds silently growing, unseen.

There are cushions of moss and lichen on rocks,

Forked branches with fungi between.

–

From the burning heat of summer days

To the chill of winter nights.

It’s a place fully intent on surviving.

Where weed and flower hold equal rights.

–

And amid the tangle of decay and rebirth,

With its web of well-trodden ways,

There’s an everlasting sense of peace,

And the echo of ancient days.

There’s a stand of trees across the road,

It’s where the heart of nature lays.

They had been in the pub, drinking steadily for a while.

Despite the ten year difference in their ages, they had been friends a long time. They often met up in the local pub.

After a while the older man said, “Come on; I know somethings bothering you. How are you doing, really?”

The younger man’s face clouded over. He said, “If you want to know the truth, in a word, awful!”

“Awful?” said the other, frowning. “What do you mean by that?”

The younger man sighed and said, “Oh! I don’t know, I feel that my judgement’s out of balance; a sense of floating in and out of clarity. Sinking in a quicksand of self-doubt. I often feel a growing darkness, so I hide myself in hope. I’m probably subscribing to a narrow view of my own intelligence, but I seem to always be the one in the background, seldom noticed. I know that I so often spend time with unimportant thoughts, taking nourishment from unproven notions. It’s as though I see things through warped lenses. I’m so easily brought down by seeing false joy and grief. It’s all a great vortex, spinning chaotically out of control. I feel I’m continually dealing with the inexplicable, and somehow my ideas are in themselves breeding instability.”

He took another drink and stared at his friend.

“Am I the only one,” he went on, “who has a burning need to know one’s ultimate destiny? Can inspiration come on a random impulse? Does mental isolation always bring about loneliness? What am I really doing with my allotted time?”

He emptied his glass.

“You see? So many questions without answers.”

His friend burped and said, “I wouldn’t worry about it. It all sounds perfectly normal to me.”

“Really, you think so?”

“Yep. Want another?”

“Sure. Why not?”

She entered the eminent psychologist’s room for yet another weekly session.

Her school results were poor. It was considered that the most likely reason for this was her being troubled by the overwhelming nature of her nightly dreams. This in itself was seen to be the most probable cause of such low marks. It was decided that these ongoing events were holding her back from fully concentrating on her school studies during the day. As a result, the school had recommended a course of psychotherapy to get to the bottom of it.

For her, none of this was true. In fact, she actually made up the most scandalous stories in order to embarrass the aging professional. It was merely a fun thing for her. She had never seen the purpose of these visits. She was aware of how expensive these sessions were, but if her parents were willing to pay, who was she to argue? The best thing for her was to create some amusement for herself. So, she concocted dreams of the most scandalous nature, then experienced a great deal of pleasure by watching the old man’s face.

On this occasion, she described at length and in great detail, a series of absolutely shocking immoral activities that had played out in her most recent and greatly disturbing dream. She told the disgraceful story involving a high-borne duchess, a young stable hand and a furious husband.

The psychologist raised a finger and made the comment that it sounded very much like a period piece, and how surprised he was at her detailed knowledge of the life and times of people living in the eighteenth century. She just shrugged, and not being put off, continued recounting her dream.

Since these sessions went for an hour, it was not uncommon to grant the patient a toilet break, if needed. It was on such a break, during the current session, that he spotted a brightly coloured book protruding from her school bag. Part of its title could be seen. The words ‘Amorous Adventures’ caught his eye. He quickly lifted it out and removed the book mark. He smiled before returning it. At the end of the visit he advised the girl that this was her final visit. This took her by surprise. She had to concede to herself that she was leaving with an uncomfortable feeling of disappointment. A disappointment that was to be completely overshadowed by remorse during the following week.

Naturally, the medical report went to the school, along with a copy of it to her parents. Although quite a detailed document, the whole of it was summed up in the final part, being the diagnosis and the conclusion.

The psychologist stated that the reason the girl was not doing particularly well in her studies simply came down to a lack of natural talent, a complete absence of originality with respect to creative thinking, and an obsession with reading cheap pornographic paperbacks.

It was the child’s mother who discovered it.

She had only intended to sit for a while and look at the colourful scribbles in the eighteen-month-old’s book. She would, of course, make all the right congratulatory noises to encourage the child. This was when she found the word. It was a large colouring book, with a few blank pages at the end. On one of these the infant had written in large, black capitals, the word ‘ONE’. She was amazed and excited at the same time, calling out to her husband.

The boy’s father, being something of a cynic, after staring at the page for a while, asked, “One what?”

His mother, on the other hand, was a religious woman, in an angry tone, she said, “Don’t be silly! It’s not ‘one’ anything. It is just the word ‘one’. For goodness sake, don’t you see, for this child to write the word ‘one’ is miracle enough!” She looked up at the ceiling. “This could be a sign, some kind of prophesy.”

They didn’t always see things the same way. Nothing much was said about it for a day or two. He certainly didn’t want to get into any arguments about what was almost certainly a fluke. Nothing happened, until his wife called out, in a hysterical tone, “Come and see. You must come and see this!”

He had to admit a fair degree of surprise when he saw that the child had written the word ‘ZERO’, again in large bold letters.

“I don’t know how,” he said, scratching his head, “but this boy is talking binary.”

“What?”

“Binary, I know you’ve never been interested in that sort of thing, but binary digits are either zero or one; that’s their values.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about, but I feel sure it means something. I mean, it must, mustn’t it?”

He pondered. “Well, I have to admit, with this second word, it is a mystery.”

“Mystery, yes. I think it’s a message of some kind. Should we be telling someone?”

“Maybe, but I suggest we think about it for a while, you know, give ourselves time to let it all sink in.”

She nodded in agreement.

The real shock came on the following day when the child wrote the word ‘TECHNOLOGY’ on another page. Although it was truly amazing their very young child had written it, it did make perfect sense. They had several long discussions about it, with him saying that some kind of communiqué was obviously unfolding and they should remain patient until they had a clear idea of what it was.

The conundrum grew even more interesting when on the following day they found the word ‘MUCH’ had been added. Whereas, they had both felt that it was becoming clearer as to what the statement would say, the word ‘much’ didn’t help at all. They talked about it even more, of course, but there was now a degree of tension growing regarding the whole series of events.

It was on the following day that this strange business was destined to come to a head. The mother was deliberately watching the boy constantly for any signs. He eventually turned to his book and picked up his black crayon. When he had written, his tiny hands proceeded to tear up the book, page by page. After standing frozen for the longest time, she came back to her senses and screamed out for her husband. Seeing what was happening, he rushed forward and rescued the book, just as the last of it was being torn up. He managed to retrieve the last word written.

That night, when the child was fast asleep, they sat talking. Finally, he held up the torn page with the word ‘TOO’ on it. “We’re agreed then?” he said.

“Yes,” she replied.

He finished tearing the page to pieces, then bagged it up with the rest of it, ready for the rubbish bin.

They had taken a mutual vow of silence regarding the entire affair.

He sat pondering over the empty writing pad.

Self-isolation through the pandemic was surely his chance to do something he’d always wanted to have a go at. To write; to write something, anything, really. He knew there were stories rattling around inside his head, there had to be. He would let them come to the surface, then make a work of it. A piece of his own creation!

He sat listening to the silence in his head. A silence that began to stir. A rippling of thoughts began to wash back and forth, like bobbing waves coming in from a great ocean or the tiny ripples on a pond. One by one he felt the notions move; layers of things being revealed. Each being a step towards the telling of a tale. He’d love to write a story about a flight of steps that go nowhere… But, no, that wasn’t real He wanted to write about his memories. He couldn’t help feeling that he’d like to write about some magical person, able to bend light rays or change the colour of leaves back to green from brown or reduce humidity to improve the day or bring on rain or just gave life to dead things…

No. This was more of the same. He needed to let the ripple of memories return. Boyhood memories were best. Some of them were forbidding. Like the scary spare room at the back of his grandma’s cottage, and what it contained. It was kept locked. He never knew why. Then there was the time, lying in bed as a small boy, hearing a loud bloodcurdling scream coming from next door. Another mystery that was never solved. On that night he had considered going down to his parents to learn more, but he had fallen back to sleep.

There was the time when the family had gone to visit friends and found them all out in the surrounding streets, looking for their dog. A dog that they never found. There was the orange monkey, a toy he never liked or the time he dropped one of his mother’s best cups. It had made her cry. Then there was his father’s anger, the time he spilt orange juice on his newspaper. There were happier, spooky times, they’d sit around by candle light when they had power cuts. Lots of things to think about, but was he just treading water?

For a long time he sat remembering smells; the lavender that grew near their back fence; a friend who would visit and smoke cigars, filling the house with the pungent aroma, and how this would upset his mother who said nothing until he had left; the lemony fragrance that hung around one of his mother’s friends. There was always the batty old bird from further up the street who was always going on about aliens, and how they were regularly visiting us, and how people kept avoiding the fact that they existed, and how she would welcome being taken on board one of their saucers, so she could learn more about them. Of course, there was the day their neighbour’s barbeque had got out of hand and thick smoke wafted down the street.

Or he could write about his uncle and the morning he was in the local church repairing a pew when the organ started playing for a few seconds, then stopped abruptly, when he looked up to find that there was no one there. He remembered how one of his best friend’s at school was so proud of how good his pet hamster was at pretending to be dead. Then there was the time he was on the Ferris wheel at the fair when it broke down and he was stuck there for hours looking down at his parents, and how angry everybody was when they eventually got it going again and everyone got off. He could write about some of the things that his auntie was always talking about, mainly how there aren’t enough trees being left to keep the air fresh and how the sea was gradually filling with plastic…

He sighed and dropped his pen.

He could think of nothing.

The friendly old woman in number eleven often found time to stop and chat.

She thought he was a nice lad and often had sweets ready for him on his way home from school. They would talk for a while before he went in for tea. She liked to talk about her daughter, who was a nurse, and she was always willing to hear the latest about his family. Their friendship had grown stronger throughout the year. Then, for several days she wasn’t at her front gate and he wondered if she was all right.

It was a couple of nights later that the drug squad came banging on the door, well after he had gone to bed. There was a hell of a commotion, with squad members going from room to room. The family was herded into the front room after it had been searched, while they carried out their raid through the rest of the house.

After a lot of tramping around and noisy searching, there were shouts from the garage and several men started carrying boxes out from his father’s van. Out in the street, under the light from the lamppost, they were loading them into a truck. His mother was crying, and it got worse when the handcuffs went on his dad. He was led out to a police car.

By this time, most of the people that lived in the street had come out to see what was happening. The big truck took off first, followed by a van with the rest of the police officers, and finally, the car with his dad sitting in the back, staring out at his wife and son.

The spectators began returning to their homes and the street fell quiet again. His mother had run in crying, leaving him to watch the tail lights disappear down the street. Eventually, he turned to go in, seeing the old woman closing her front curtains as he did.

He felt sure he saw her grinning.