Author: Alexander Fawn

She had never been really comfortable with staying at her aunt’s house.

She remembered visiting with her parents. She had always found the place positively creepy. They had never been received with any genuine welcome on their visits. As a child she had overheard her parents talking about the gossip that the old woman was dabbling in the black arts. None of this was comprehended fully at the time, but it was enough to justify her dislike of the place, located, as it was, way past civilisation in a valley surrounded by woodlands. It was as though the old cottage didn’t want to be found. It had no electricity, just gas lamps, giving off a greenish, yellow glow that hardly lit the pokey little rooms.

Her aunt seemed to have made a point of collecting strange figurines. These she had placed all around the place; in every room. They all had the unnerving quality of being somehow out of place, especially the ones that sat around in the bathroom. For her, the most disturbing one was the small, shiny bird that sat on the narrow window ledge with its large, penetrating eyes, and of course, she had never been able to rid herself of the sound. A sound that so often brought her out of a night’s sleep with a jolt.

It was the memory of the time, that last time. Her very last visit. The final incident that had lingered into her young adulthood, and the reason she’d never go back. It was the morning she was leaving. It being a long drive ahead of her, she rose early. She was brushing her teeth when it happened; that sound!

The low, grating noise, as the little porcelain owl slowly turned its head and winked at her…

Not finding a word can make you quite sick.

It can make you feel like a lunatic.

–

To capture the thought you need to be quick,

But there are times when it just doesn’t click.

–

A word not quite right can get on your wick,

And after a while your neck gets a crick.

–

You’d think it’d be easy to pick,

But you’d really like to give it the flick.

–

You’ve been at it for hours and giving it stick.

Nailing it down, that’s the trick.

–

But you end up feeling incredibly thick.

All this, to find something that rhymes with brick!

The teenage lad from the factory floor was called to the office.

The manager waved him in with a smile. The boy was a bit nervous when he was asked to take a seat. The boss cleared his throat and said, “We’ve had a dramatic drop in orders over the past few months and the people at the top say we have to downsize the operations here. It was decided that our production levels would match up with a smaller staff. We estimate that our current number of staff needs to be cut by three.

He pointed to a pile of folders. “I have gone through all of the personnel files,” he nodded and continued. “Naturally, I had to take into consideration the fact that three of my people are going to be out of work. Most of the men here have families to support. At first, it was a very difficult decision to make.”

He looked at the file in front of him. “Of course, on the other hand,” he picked the file up and looked through it. “I see from the records you have only been with us six months. As far as I can see you have not taken any sick days or had time off for anything.”

The lad said, “That’s right, sir.”

The manager went on, “There’s a note here from your supervisor saying that you arrive early in the morning and often worked back late, if needed. It also says that you often take less than your allotted lunch break, returning to the workshop floor early.”

The other said, “That’s true, sir.”

The manager turned over a couple of pages. “I see from these worksheets that you are producing more than anyone else in your section.”

The boy smiled.

“I must say that all this has made my decision a lot easier.”

The boy raised his eyebrows.

“As far as I can see, you are basically doing the work of three people…”

Looking into the heart of trivia

Can be more than a serious matter.

Seeking the truly hidden things,

Beyond any party chatter.

–

It is not so much the ‘did you know?s’,

Like the use of peanuts in dynamite,

Or that male seahorses really do give birth,

Or that moon-bows are rainbows that appear at night.

–

It’s not that the first pencils were made from lead,

Or that New Yorkers can’t see the stars at night,

Or that an ostrich lays an egg bigger than its head.

Once known, such things can be seen as trite.

–

It’s so easy to trip over trivia

And fall, without knowing that you did.

So much that is regarded as trivia

Has places where treasures are hid.

–

Is it the fear of a lack of seriousness

That has us looking away?

There will always be things truly unseen.

Always, come what may!

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?”