Author: Alexander Fawn

She walked this path every morning.

The air was cool, but the sun was on its way. He stood back, partly hidden by the flowering bushes. He was good at waiting. She would be here soon. He knew how much she loved the flowers. She would come with watering can, stopping occasionally to wet the brightly coloured petals.

This was her morning habit, her ritual. At the house, a door sounded. He felt the thrill. The garden looked particularly beautiful in spring. She would be happy and excited when she saw the blossoms this morning, passionate even. Spring is a passionate season. If only he could bring himself to approach her; to tell her how much he appreciated the love and devotion she pours out, along with the gentle sprinkling of water.

Suddenly, she appears, dressed in a woolly robe and slippers, carrying a heavy can. He looked on in admiration as she slowly made her way beside the flower bed, stopping occasionally to examine a blossom. She used a fingertip to move it gently from side to side. She moved on, seeing nothing but the colours, the stems, the soil, the shiny beads rolling off petals. As always, she paused at the clematis, her favourites. He knew this from experience. He loved the way she whispered to the flowers as the can tipped. His heart swelled as he saw the adoring smile light up her face. She straitens and comes closer. Moments later, she glides by without noticing him.

It was at times like these that being a garden gnome wasn’t at all easy.

The cryptocurrency industry,

Is it going boom or bust?

Is it just a wise investment,

Or is it Mammon’s lust?

–

Novices look for an overview,

Maybe never understood.

A crypto river quietly flowing,

The way paper never could.

–

Are we sure it’s in its infancy,

With its lack of centralization?

All that loot is securely stashed,

With understandable hesitation.

–

The power to print money is under threat

For the ether, we give thanks.

No more endless small print!

Did we ever trust the banks?

–

Is it a different kind of trade,

That is done without the frills?

Does a crypto wallet

Really let you pay your bills?

–

There’s a kind of crypto rush,

With a matching history with gold.

The miners take up their crypto tools;

Better than cash we’re told.

–

The whole mind-boggling nature of it,

May be new to some.

A turning point in world history?

We’ll know in time to come.

–

A biting of lips, as bitcoin dips.

You may well lose it all,

And you may well say you had some fun,

Should you see it stall.

–

The coin is only ever worth

Whatever a coin is worth,

Leading either to Utopia

Or a financial Hell on earth!

–

As for the overall wisdom of it,

Uncertain, it should be said,

But remember, Confucius, he say,

Bitcoin? Get in there Ned!

Ordinarily he was not a person to be left speechless.

Certainly, no such thoughts crossed his mind as he dialled the number. He sent the letter at the beginning of the week, but he hadn’t had a reply. He had never been much of a complainer, but enough was enough.

The chair of the parish council picked up.

“Ah! Good morning to you. Yes. I have your letter here somewhere. One moment.”

A rustle of paper.

“Ah! Yes, I have it. You’ve been with us for a number of months I see. As you probably know, the chair of the village dancing club informed us at the parish council meeting of their disappointment that you would not be attending the weekly get together that our little community enjoys so much, every Saturday evening. It has been something of a cherished tradition in our modest community to hold a weekly dance on the night, with everybody joining in, maintaining a happy communion. Your reluctance to fall in with this humble yet important tradition of our regular gatherings probably goes some way to explain why anyone would even consider doing such a thing as described in your letter.”

He paused to blow his nose or sneeze. It was hard to tell. The caller thought he could hear other voices, or it may just have been a bad connection. After a few more seconds, the councillor went on.

“Although I agree with your considerations regarding the events that took place late last Saturday evening, and personally find the whole incident most regrettable, I also find myself duty bound, as chair of the parish council, to take into account the feelings of those members I serve. Owing to the fact that there are several small farms situated in the immediate area, it would be hard to determine where such a pile of dung, particularly in the vast quantities that you describe, could possibly come from. Not, I think, from any one property. Although your letter’s useful description of the sheer size of it does lend one to believe that it may well have come about as a result of several rural enterprises clubbing together, as it were.”

Another rustle of paper.

“With respect to any perceived obligation that the parish may have to assist in the removal of such a vast quantity of manure, there is the consideration of practicality to take into account. Such a project would no doubt require equipment that is simply not at the council’s disposal. Further, I can only think that the fact that your dog was asleep among these bushes at the time of the dumping, as it were, was nothing short of an unhappy coincidence. As for how your wife’s garden line of washing burst into flames, save for a number of her personal undergarments that ending up strewn along the street, it is a complete mystery, considering the damp weather we have all been experiencing of late.”

Another pause, followed by throat clearing.

“It has been suggested to me that it may very well be that the whole thing comes down to a matter of community spirit, you see, and if you don’t mind my saying, on the surface, this is something you don’t seem to have a lot of.

Anyway, thank you for your call. I can assure you that due diligence will be ongoing in this matter.

Oh! By-the-by, we hope you can join us on Saturday.”

A loud sniff.

“Bye for now.”

They are all on them.

There’s no longer any need to talk to most of the others, in person; they all have one too. They’re on trains and buses, at airports and bus stops. They’re on park benches, up trees, in shops, cafes, waiting rooms and libraries; at home, in the office, factory or store. Used sitting, standing or lying, by both the unemployed and the plain bored. It’s in a pocket or a bag, silently waiting, unless buzzing or chiming for attention.

In a chair, up a ladder, on a horse, standing in a crowd or in a silo. Communication may be essential; plumbers, carpenters, doctors and tow trucks. Drivers, passengers and shop assistants are all busy comparing the costs of items, checking the weather, the stock market, show times or the latest government policies. Those do have their needs, often unavailable, either hiding in a corner or blatantly ignoring those who wait.

If, by chance, you‘re not sure where you are, they have that covered. Never get lost again. You’re that little blue dot. You are there because a satellite that you can never see says so. Now, unavoidable. Overuse no longer a consideration. They’re right there waiting to tell you where you are or to order something, to book a table or take a selfie. They’re where they should be; that is, everywhere!

No need to tell you what they are, but if in doubt, just look it up on yours…

He was in town and about to cross the street when he saw the man coming out of a shop.

The man he was looking at was him! The man’s picture was on the news the night before. What was his name? No, he couldn’t remember. Doesn’t matter though, does it? He was looking at the FBI’s most wanted terrorist. He was having a job to take it all in. What did the news report say? Do not approach, as he is considered to be armed and dangerous. What else? Yes, that’s right, there’s a reward of up to five million dollars for information that leads directly to either his apprehension or conviction. That’s a lot of money, but he needs to be very careful about what he does next.

He doesn’t cross over. Instead, he follows the criminal from the other side of the road while hanging back. This gave him time to think. He took out his mobile phone and rang the emergency number. He was put through to the police. After a brief exchange, the detective he’d been patched through to said the man in question was approaching a CCTV camera on the corner of the street.

After a couple of minutes the voice on the phone said, “Yes, we’ve got him. Hang on. Just a minute.” The phone went silent and the caller kept walking. He heard a crackling as his phone came back to life. “Hello. Yes, we’ve identified him.”

“You have? That’s great!”

“He’s a butcher.”

“I know he is.”

“No, no, he’s a real butcher!”

“Oh! I’ve no doubt about that, I saw the media report last night. I assure you I’ll be very careful.”

“Listen, you’re not getting the message. He’s not a terrorist, he’s a butcher. You know, he cuts up meat and poultry and sells it. For goodness sake, the guy makes sausages!”

Supressing both surprise and deep disappointment at the same time, and before ringing off, he managed to murmur, “Oh!”

She was just another old lady, sitting in the corner of a cafeteria.

To any casual observer, there was nothing to set her apart from any other well-dressed woman of her age. The place was always crowded around midday and this was just about the only reason she sat there now, sipping her tea. It was lunch time for many of the town’s workers and the hall was not only packed, but noisy. She didn’t mind the clamour of it, it was something she sought. In fact, the general hubbub of it all provided solace. Just sitting here made her feel she was a part of a society that she had never really connected with. Put simply, she was in her comfort zone. As peculiar as it might sound, she was not so much lonely, but a loner.

To say that she was lonely would not cover it; not by half. It had been the way of it with her since very early childhood. She had never found it easy to get on with others, to share their hopes and dreams, to care about their problems and personal misfortunes. There had never been the desire to want and find a childhood friend. That in itself being the intrinsic part of her character that had set a path for the rest of her life. She had often wondered how many others fell to this same malady; how many similar sufferers outside of her world spent their time and money attending sessions with psychiatrists and therapists. This was not something she would ever consider.

She had often given thought to the strange dilemma that had her both seeking and avoiding company. More than company. Wasn’t it affection that was missing from her life? What about devotion and fondness? Certainly no passion or intimacy had ever been there for her. She had never known a partner or even a close friend.

She looked around at the diners. All talking, eating and laughing. She looked at their ages and their dress, their obvious enjoyment of sharing and caring. She would receive occasional glances. What would they see? They would see just another old lady, sitting in the corner of a cafeteria.

On this particular occasion she was quite close to a similar corner table that was likewise only occupied by a single customer. It was a man of middle age, not eating, but occasionally sipping from a cup. He appeared to be intent on reading. It took several moments before she realised that he was actually reading braille. She watched with interest for some time as the blind man ran his fingertips gently back and forth across the page of his open book. As she sat staring, it struck her that she felt such contentment at being able to scrutinize him without the hindrance of any unwanted connection.

He sat for an hour. She sat for an hour.

In the weeks that followed, all she could think of was how she would really like to know what the word ‘love’ feels like.

It was the gap in the hedge that he began to hate.

The front of the house was in a bit of a state.

He really needed to improve his estate.

It could really do with a proper update,

And about the problem he began to fixate.

–

To do the chore he’d come up with a date,

But putting it off wasn’t up for debate.

A hinged barrier would be great.

He would have to consider its colour and weight.

–

He knew it was something that he could create.

The size of the gap the width would dictate,

With timber strong, but still lightweight.

It needed to be smart, but not ornate.

–

He knew he had a lot on his plate,

And he’d need to borrow tools from his mate.

So, the morning he started it was just gone eight.

He laboured away at a steady rate.

He worked all day and hardly ate.

–

The hinges were oiled so they wouldn’t grate,

And the posts either side were perfectly straight.

To get it all finished, he could hardly wait.

By the time it was done it was really late.

He considered the finished job was first-rate.

He would write a short poem to celebrate.

But his hopes for this would soon deflate,

As his search for words began to stagnate.

–

The exercise stalled and it began to frustrate.

He was stumped for a word that rhymed with gate!

It was the kind of disturbing event that you could do without.

Especially while taking a stroll in order to clear the head and think quietly for a while. He would often get out and take a slow walk in the local forest whenever he needed to relax and concentrate on weighty affairs. He was doing just that when he heard a sudden rustling. It seemed to be close by. Interested to see whether an animal was about to cross his path he stood silently beside a tree and waited. After a few moments he caught site of what seemed to be movement. There was a strange shimmering before a small figure appeared. As it came closer, he could see that it was a tiny man. It appeared to be an elderly dwarf strolling along, looking at a tiny pocket watch.

He slowly moved back behind the tree and continued to stare in disbelief.

The creature returned the timepiece to its waistcoat and took a step up into thin air. To his amazement he saw it take another step up, going higher and higher, as though climbing and invisible staircase. It was a spiral staircase because the dwarf went around and around several times. At the top it stopped, then strolled along in mid-air where it stopped again and looked up.

It seemed to take hold of something and amble its way back along what was probably a balcony of some sort, although there was absolutely nothing to see. At this point he could make out that it was carrying a tiny book. At the top of the staircase, it paused to flip through a few pages. Apparently satisfied, it proceeded to make its way down the spiral, finally stepping back onto the ground again at the bottom.

As it waddled away, the man came forward a little to watch it go, stepping on a twig as he did. It made a crack. The dwarf turned and peered up at the man.

“Sorry,” the man said, still in a state of shock, “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I mean, I can’t believe… well, I mean…” He stood gaping while the tiny manlike creature came a little closer, adjusting its spectacles and scrutinizing the intruder.

After a moment it shrugged and said, “Sorry, the library’s closed.”

And with a shimmer, it was gone.

There was a tale writer from Perth

Who would scribble for all he was worth.

His yarns were not slim,

But full to the brim,

Because he would eke out as many naming nouns, replacing pronouns, communicative verbs, expressive adjectives, descriptive adverbs, modifying prepositions, joining conjunctions, and dramatic interjections as he could possibly unearth.

He sat on the rocky outcrop, taking in the scene.

The place was huge. It was filled with a tumult of people. As he looked across his vast, flickering empire, he allowed ancient and precious memories to come flooding back. He did this often. These fleeting thoughts; anguished thoughts of a quite different kind of life-everlasting, no longer possible.

He looked out through smoke and fire and frowned out upon the huge swirling mass of tortured spirits. No redemption for the souls captured here. No redress possible to relieve their sorrow or their dread. So many souls spending time after poor bargains, bad decisions, trapped in a place where time itself plays no part. Their choices, their decisions, are reflected in his own. His own act of defiance with his maker.

All ugly events metered out here are subject to nothing beyond his ultimate whim. Although cast into these nethermost regions, he had no masters here. But… how he wished he could trade away this power for what was once his. No. He was forever denied even a glimpse of paradise.

And all this would never pass; for he was Lucifer, and this was hell.