Author: Alexander Fawn

When he got home, he couldn’t believe his eyes.

Most of his roof was missing and his garden was strewn with debris on all sides. Amongst the rubble he could see broken tiles, lengths of splintered timber and fragments of smouldering carpet. After circling the outside of the building he stood looking at the front door. There didn’t seem to be a mark on it. He unlocked it and entered. There was a tremendous heat and a pungent smoke drifting up from a gigantic hole where his lounge room used to be. He stood, taking in the great gaping sections of floors and ceilings. He looked up at the great expanse of open sky that now replaced what used to be his upstairs bedroom and bathroom.

He approached the gaping chasm with caution. The intense heat and acrid fumes rising up made it difficult to peer down into the abyss. From what he could make out, he was looking down into a bottomless pit with walls glowing bright orange as far as his watering eyes could see. His mind boggled as he asked himself what could possibly create a hole that size. Regardless of how impossible it seemed, he felt sure that there had to be a perfectly rational explanation for what he was looking at.

Meanwhile, far away, in fact on the other side of the planet, a technician arrives at a rocket launch site. He stands looking at a similar hole. This blackened crater was quite clearly located at the very spot, that only the day before, a very large rocket had stood.

He was also aware that on the previous day, specialists had been brought in to make a number of extremely delicate adjustments to the rocket’s reverse thrusting system.

He began to speculate…

The detective climbed the stairwell to level three and looked for room 16. He tried the handle: not locked! He had to be careful, he knew the man inside was violent. He eased it open and looked in. No one in the hall, but movement somewhere. It was all so dimly lit. He moved silently into the first room; a lounge. Again, hardly any light. More noises came from behind the door on the far side. He took his gun out and let it dangle by his side as he moved further into the room. He stopped when the noises stopped abruptly. He brought his gun up and stood motionless. All at once, the door burst open and a large silhouette of a man stood backlit in the doorway; his arm came up. The detective didn’t hesitate. Two rapid shots took the man down.

He holstered his gun and found a light switch. The man just lay there; TV remote still in his hand

Am I conceited, or what? He thought. I really should wear my glasses…

The small village in the mountainous region of northern Italy receives very few tourists.

On this day, the man sitting at the little table was just another local resident. He was seen as a strange addition to their community; he kept pretty much to himself, was very quiet, but certainly polite. He was thinking of returning to his villa when he noticed the back-packer across the street; he seemed to be staring across. Suddenly there was recognition in the tourist’s eyes. With a beaming smile, he rushed over and took his hand.

“From the old company, right? Four, five years ago?” he gushed.

After a long hesitation, the man said, “Yes. I remember you,” he looked him over, noticed the camera, “back-packing I see.”

“Yes. I’ve been doing it for several years now. Somewhere different every time.”

The man looked around. “On your own?”

“I am. On my own and still single. I often think that none of this would be possible, if I weren’t. You could say I’ve been bitten by the bug; I’d hate to give it up. But you, do you actually live here?”

“I do. You could say I’ve also been bitten, but by a different bug. I found I could afford to buy a small villa here and I just love the life. It’s simple, yet it’s exactly what I want.”

The back-packer laughed. “Well, there you are then. You have found your place in the world.”

The man pointed to the camera. “Do you take many pictures?”

“Do I ever? Hundreds of them. Especially in places like this. Coming up from the valley I was continually looking back and taking shots.”

The man said, “Well, before passing through, I can highly recommend the vista from my balcony. It’s only two minutes off this road. It was the main reason for me buying it.”

“That’s very kind of you. Thanks.”

With that, they took off and soon arrived at the villa.

The tourist was thrilled with the view as he stepped out onto the balcony. He said, “Wow! I’d like to take several shots, if that’s OK?”

The man lifted his shoulders and said, “Of course, take your time. I’ll get some cold drinks.”

As the man attached the silencer to his gun he knew that it had to be done, although the tourist obviously knew nothing. Only those from the old underworld would know why he was there. He had been in the witness protection program for two years now.

He’d like it to stay that way.

In the quietness of the night,

Strange imaginings are given flight.

–

Anything within the range,

Prohibit none for passing strange.

–

Conducting music in your head

Or making song sheets burn instead.

–

Silence getting wet in rain,

Bring it back to dry again.

–

Watching sins grow slowly dark.

Seeing flowers make a spark.

–

Make the time forget itself,

Then place it on a darkened shelf.

–

Unbursting soapy bubbles as they fly

Or slowing down a morning sky.

–

Smashing nice ideas apart,

Then mending them within your heart.

–

Scolding symptoms as they part.

Saying all is really art.

–

Reading poems in a cloud.

Making words self-define aloud.

–

A leaf burnt through by the sun.

All epiphanies undone.

–

A gentle breeze that moves a stone.

Making boulders float alone.

–

No need your thoughts to rearrange,

All is only passing strange.

He was nothing more than an unbelievably ordinary guy, anyone who knew him would tell you that.

On the face of it, there weren’t too many of these. You could say he was prosaic, hum-drum, in fact, a nobody. He worked as a clerk in a small company that imported parts for domestic appliances. His role there consisted mainly of keeping records; maintaining the paperwork that recorded where stuff came from and where it was going to. There were only a dozen people that worked in the place, with just two or three of these that he communicated with on a daily basis. He had never married. Living on his own in a tiny flat just a ten minute bus ride in from the outskirts of the city suited him fine. He had no hobbies, no pets, and no interests outside of maintaining his simple lifestyle; one that gave him no reason to complain.

The significance of what came to light on that evening was, and never will be, recognised for what it was. It was during a conversation with one of the ladies from the office and two men that he didn’t know that it happened. Both he and the woman had been required to work late and the conversation that buzzed around him was exclusively about how hard life was and how much better they thought the world should be. It had to be a combination of the lateness of the bus, together with the chill of the wind that had sharpened the bitterness of the complaints being aired. As usual, he said very little.

When he was eventually asked if he could name just one thing that was actually good about life, he replied, “Everything.”

She was considering the self-evident truth about how much things can change.

Three years ago she had made a promise. It was different then, they were so happy. Her sacrifice was such a small thing for her then. He had never shared her interests in things that he considered best left alone. He thought what she was doing was dangerous. He said it was a threat to both of them. So, she had promised.

But, the fool had succumbed to the charms of the woman in the accounting office, and that changed everything. She needed the book. With her promise made, she had hidden it away in a shoe-box.

He was out again, she wasn’t sure where, most likely at his favourite bar in town, or maybe her place. Either way, it gave her the opportunity to retrieve her book of incantations. She flicked through and found the one she needed. It would happen wherever he was. It would be better if it actually ended in a hospital. These things always ended well in those clinical, professional environments. Questions wouldn’t be asked. She would receive a call informing her that her husband… etcetera.

She held the open book and spoke the words. After this, she sat waiting.

In less than an hour, the phone rang… it was the hospital.

She had given her solemn promise that she would give it all up, but that was then, and once learned, witchcraft never loses its power.

From very early childhood he believed that travelling back in time was possible.

The future, well no, after all it didn’t exist yet, but the past was real enough. Of course everybody had said that it could never happen, as it would go against all known physical laws. The most vehement opposition came from the religious zealot who lived at number ten. She would have to be the most evil old hag he had ever come across. In an angry exchange, she had told him one day that he was a nincompoop and would never amount to anything. Well, that not only upset him a great deal at the time, but gave him an even greater reason for figuring out how to bring about the impossible.

When he finally cracked it, all made possible by building a very special telephone from scratch. It worked simply enough on the basis that he used the front, rotating dial, to select a time period. With great excitement, he used its awesome power to travel back and forth several times, making sure that he wasn’t seen. He wanted no fame or glory for doing the impossible. It was far better that nobody knew what he had accomplished, at least for now.

Thinking back, he knew that this most abhorrent person, the malignant witch, regularly opened the back door of number ten every night to let Puss-Puss in for supper and his comfy cat basket for the night.

His dilemma was that he couldn’t make his mind up. He would either return and give the nasty old biddy the fright of her life together with proving her utterly wrong, then go on to reap the rewards of his amazing invention, or simply bump her off. Either way, he had an appointment at number ten.

He was thinking about all this when the phone rang…

When you see the storm clouds coming,

When the truth of it is denied,

Do not struggle or ponder,

Set it all aside.

–

When the bad apple comes into view,

And they see you have them in mind,

Carefully climb out of the barrel.

And leave it all behind.

–

See the potholes coming.

Skirt quicksand as you go.

Know the pitfall for what it is,

Hold on tight to what you know.

–

When early signs of a festering appear,

Act without delay.

Recognise the ending.

Know when to walk away…

He had been asked to write something, a eulogy for his long-time friend.

He sat, pen poised over paper. It was actually quite ironic that he should have been asked to talk about the man. He really didn’t know him at all well; nobody did. The deceased was a very private man. Yes, they’d attended the same school, and yes he had been in touch with him half a dozen times over the following five decades, but he didn’t know him. He only knew what little most others did. He was shy and kept very much to himself. He had come into money as a young man and used it to live modestly, but at the same time he had travelled a great deal.

He was not a particularly happy man. In fact, he often suffered from bouts of depression. He had never married. He was a sad, lonely individual who seemingly travelled from country to country in search of what… adventure, romance, love, passion, who knows?

Although, in truth, according to the very last time they caught up it seems he found all of these in spades in a small town in Paraguay, the night a promiscuous chamber maid took him down to the hotel’s subterranean wine cellar.

He dropped the pen.

No, he couldn’t talk about that!

It was a perfect day for communing with nature.

She found herself walking through the forest, taking in the aroma of damp foliage and pine cones. It was so peaceful. The sound of the carpet of dead leaves rustling beneath her feet reminded her of times past; of long gone childhood days. So many sweet memories came flooding back. Her friends running and playing with her. Stopping sometimes, like now, listening to bird calls and trying to name the birds making them. She stood listening for a while. There was only one she was sure of, the rest… the rest she could no longer place. That’s what the ageing process does for you, she thought. It makes things fade away, grow distant, no longer recognised.

Quite suddenly, she found herself in a clearing, she could easily look up into the open sky. She stood watching the few clouds there. Saw how they moved and changed shape. This was yet another thing she would love doing as a child. The cooling breeze was just enough to move wisps of grey hair across her face.

It was only when the sun dipped and dusk surrounded her, that her time was spoilt by the realisation that she had no idea where she was, or how she had got there!