Author: Alexander Fawn

The young woman in the waiting room was obviously agitated.

Rows of a dozen chairs each lined all sides, with most of them empty. She shared the room with eight others. One of them, an elderly man who looked extremely sad, sat next to her. He coughed into a handkerchief occasionally. She thought about striking up a conversation with him. This would be more about sharing her problems and less about cheering him up. She picked up a magazine and made a show of turning the pages. He didn’t respond.

“I had a terrible experience,” she said in a half whisper. His head wiggled slightly. “I was trapped. It was so embarrassing. I mean, to be trapped in one of those things.” She looked at him. He didn’t seem to be listening. She went on, determined to tell her story. “It all happened last night. A bunch of us went to the concert in town. You know the one? You must have seen the posters.”

The old man just sighed.

Not to be put off, she went on. “Anyway, the concert was great, and there was lots of food and drink for people. You know, these mobile things you get at this type of event. One of the girls with us had to go back to the row of temporary toilets several times during the evening. Each time she came back she talked about how long the queues were and how she wished she had a stronger bladder.”

The man made a grunting noise.

“Oh! Sorry. You don’t need to know that part. Anyway, I sat out the entire concert without going, but I thought it best if I paid a visit before going for the bus. Seemed sensible at the time. There was hardly anyone queueing by the time I got there; most of the audience had left.”

She fell silent for a minute. “You don’t need to hear much about what happened next, but let’s say I was in the little metal cubicle for a long time.”

The old man moved his shoulders; he seemed uncomfortable.

“Well, that’s when it happened. When I had finally, you know, finished, I couldn’t get out! No matter how hard I tried, the catch on the door had jammed. I tried everything I could think of to release it, but it wouldn’t budge. That’s when I got scared. I mean, really scared. I started banging on the sides of the thing as loudly as I could, but nobody came! Can you believe it? Do you think anybody heard me, eh? Do you think there was anybody around the whole night to hear me banging?

He blew his nose, and said, “Obviously not. What was it that did for you?”

She looked shocked. “Pardon?”

“Obviously not,” he repeated, “if there was somebody around you wouldn’t be here.”

She stared at him, not understanding what he was saying.

He gave an impatient shrug. “Well, did you suffocate of did your heart give out?”

She looked around the room…

For all intents and purposes she was just an average, middle-aged woman.

She was on the bus, coming home from the city, when she first heard the voices. They were right there in her head. A woman’s voice, soft and speaking slowly, but only just audible. The first time she heard it the voice was saying something about volunteer work and how it was good for the community. She had done some volunteering once, but not for a long time. She wondered if she was being told something; being guided in some way. Yes, that could be it, a guiding voice. She knew that other people, women mainly, had talked about their guardian angels. She had never taken much notice of this… until now.

The voices seemed to continually fade in and out. Sometimes she could hear a lot of the words and other times just odd words or phrases. This was perplexing because she had never suffered from poor hearing. At home, in the quiet of her front room, it was easier to hear them. She heard very little for a couple of evenings, then late one afternoon a male voice came across a lot stronger. Again, a pleasant well-spoken man, talking about the loss of lives and the need for the government to sit down for talks. She heard several complete sentences before it faded out.

It was clear she was being given some sort of advice, whether it was from an angel or some other kind of spiritual being, she didn’t know. Whatever was going on, she decided to keep it to herself. Apart from any embarrassment that could result if this was shared with others, she felt that these messages were for her alone. It was her secret. For the best part of a year she would sit quietly knitting, listening as best she could to her voices. It was at this point that her life took a turn, for medical reasons.

Her teeth had given her problems for years. She thought this would be fixed finally when she had her upper teeth removed and a bridge fitted. However, she had been feeling pain there and it had been getting gradually worse for some time. Reluctantly, she had her local dentist examine her. Unhappily, she had developed a bad case of Gingivitis in her upper gums and needed to return to the medical centre in the city for further surgery. The outcome of this being the removal of her bridge and a course of treatment for her gums. It was recommended that instead of a bridge, an upper dental plate be fitted in order that any further treatment could be carried out more easily. Naturally, she was disappointed, but even more so when she came to realise that her voices had stopped.

She was destined never to know that her metal bridgework had been picking up a radio news channel!

When looking within, are we seeking respite?

From the world’s disorder;

By using some bygone ancient wisdom?

And can we find solace in a poetical view of the world?

–

As we enter the labyrinth do we side with those who chide the moon?

Seen and unseen, for it is always there.

And notwithstanding our ever-changing passions,

Is there really someone out there ready to carry man’s burdens?

Do we see human survival being dependant on the worship of deities?

–

We sift through misfortunes and blessings using the same filter,

Often guided by the persuasion of others,

And using this filtered perception to view the world,

It being a chaotic mix of psychology and spirituality,

Do we turn to natural science?

–

There may be disrespectful trust in what we feel.

Merely a delusional witness to life’s ups and downs.

Inner voices, often too loud, seeking help.

This warren of cluttered realms,

Perceived to be too deep to climb back out.

–

Discovering so many keys yet being forever one short.

Seeing the ground and the sky as walls that form a trap.

All such notions blocking the way.

Striving for the reproduction of beauty.

Feeding false fixations, with values continually shifting.

Clutching to a natural obsession to survive.

All beyond some psychic fear becoming a healing agent.

–

All this, just to become hunters and gatherers again,

In an effort to give the past a future.

Swayed by others with feelings of competition and aggression;

In a tangle between man and spirit.

Duality competing with unity.

–

With no advancement from speaking in tongues.

No respite from pity or fear.

Only a repetitive creation of hedges within the maze.

Succumbing to the knowledge that the force of art continues to govern form.

Moving beyond the verity of all we know,

Still seeking respite from disorder, yet using only our ancient wisdom,

And just maybe… finding solace in a poetical view of the world.

 

 

The two men caught up in the University’s library.

“How’s that problem of yours going?”

“It isn’t.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Me too.”

“You’ve had it a long time.”

“I have, I just don’t know what to do about it.”

“Have you tried ignoring it?”

“I have.”

“Any good?”

“No, not really.”

“You could always pretend, of course.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, just pretend that the problem doesn’t exist.”

“Oh! Yes, I see what you mean.”

“Give it a go.”

“I have.”

“Any luck with it?”

“Sadly, no.”

“OK. I think you need to move on to the next step.”

“I do?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“It’s not easy.”

“I’m sure I can give it a go.”

“It’s called the denial stage.”

“Right. How does it work?”

“Well, you deny that you have ever had a problem in the first place, or that you ever tried to ignore it, or that you ever pretended that the problem was gone, when it wasn’t.”

“Oh! I see.”

“You could probably give that a go, if you think you’re up to it.”

“You know; thinking about it right now, I’m sure I have tried doing that.”

““You have?”

“Yes.”

“Well… that leaves the ‘other person’ stage.”

“Other person?”

“Yes. You convince yourself that some other person has the problem, that they denied that they ever had the problem in the first place, that they tried ignoring it, that they pretended that the problem was gone, when it wasn’t, and it all has absolutely nothing to do with you.”

“Wow! Does that work?”

“Wouldn’t know.”

You’ve not tried it then?”

“Me? No! People have been known to go mad trying to do that!”

The service station was empty of customers when he called in for fuel.

He had a long drive ahead of him and despite the run down look of the place, he couldn’t afford to be picky. He filled up and went in. The old man at the counter was tinkering with his phone. He didn’t look up when he approached. The machine sat on the counter, so he inserted his card. The old man kept tapping at his mobile. When asked for a receipt, the man tapped a button and it rolled out, still not looking at his customer. The card was removed and returned to his wallet. He stood looking at the old man for a minute, feeling completely invisible. He was totally unaccustomed to such a gross level of rudeness.

He cleared his throat. “Thanks for the fuel,” he said, “I have a long journey in front of me and I’d hate to run out.”

The old man grunted, again without looking away from his phone.

He stood thinking for a while. He felt anger welling up inside. This was becoming intolerable. He was a respectable member of the public, and a professional man. This sort of behaviour needed a good jolt. He said, “I’m letting you know I’m using the toilet out the back, before I move on.”

Nothing.

“Well, yes, thank you. I’ll drive safely, shall I?”

No response.

“Come again, shall I?”

Silence.

“Well then, nice chatting with you, bye”.

With that, he went around to the gents’ toilet and looked it over. He found a gas bottle and carried it back into the toilet.

Being a highly-paid combustion engineer for a major gas company, he knew exactly what he was about. In the cubicle, he sat it on the lid of the toilet bowl and cracked the valve open, just enough to allow a low hiss and a steady build-up of gas in the cubicle. In the wash basin, at the far end of the room, he screwed up a number of paper towels very tightly, to produce a slow burning wick. He lit it. He checked the time. He estimated that it would only be a matter of minutes.

He got into his car and drove back the way he had come for a few metres, turned around, then parked on the side of the road. He was at a safe distance. He switched off and sat waiting. He was quite sure the old man didn’t actually own the petrol station, but he felt sure he’d get into one hell of a lot of trouble.

Several minutes passed before the explosion. When it came, the ground shook and a great orange ball went up. He started his car and drove slowly past. There was a face at the front window.

He found it gratifying that the old man was actually looking at him!

 

He had never been entirely comfortable with the girl from the flat across the hall.

He felt quite ashamed of the fact that he had always judged her on her appearance alone. They hadn’t spoken other than brief ‘hellos’. This was the case with just about all of the tenants in the block. He often worked late, so, by the time he got home most were at their evening meal. This was how it was with him; early mornings and late nights. This evening she happened to be coming down the stairs as he was making his way up. Beyond the usual greeting, he had time to witness a beautiful smile. It was stunning; positively radiant. Beneath the dark make-up, the spikey hair and the daggy clothes, there was probably a beautiful person!

A couple of weeks passed and he found himself doing some late night shopping. He was looking for a USB flash drive of a particular size when she saw him and entered the shop. At first she seemed to be looking for something for herself, but after a few minutes she came and stood next to him. She looked up with that same smile and said, “Hi! Fancy meeting you, eh?”

He smiled back. “Yes. Just looking for a one-hundred-and-twenty-eight gigabyte flash drive. I heard they were on special here, but they seemed to have sold out. Not surprised really, they were going for a very good price.”

She looked along the racks with him for a while. Then she moved very close to him, she winked and whispered, “If you like, I can lift one for you, and let you have it for half-price.”

 

From their twenty-third story apartment building they had a magnificent view of the city.

He woke with a feeling of extreme tightness around his chest. As his focus returned he became aware of his situation. The view before him was truly magnificent. This was a major factor when they were choosing a place. However, taking in the scenery was never envisaged as something you would do hanging from a rope! The chest restriction was a rope, tethered to the rail of their balcony just above his head. He started to scream.

This was responded to by a loud “Shush!”

He looked up with some difficulty. He could just make out his wife’s face peering down. “Shush,” she repeated, “no need to disturb the neighbours.”

He found that talking was made difficult by the compression of his chest, along with lifting his head back in order to work his jaw. “What’s happening to me?” he garbled.

She smiled down. “It was in the tea.”

“In the what?”

“In the tea. The drug was in the tea. The nice cuppa I made for you, using your preferred raw sugar. Aren’t I thoughtful?”

“For goodness sake! What’s happening?”

From above, he heard, “I would have thought that was pretty obvious my sweet; much better to ask why.”

He wriggled around trying to make himself more comfortable. It didn’t work. “OK. Why?” he croaked.

“Well, I guess it all just came to a head, really. For, let me see now, twenty-four, twenty-five years you have been putting raw sugar in my tea, when I much prefer the regular white.”

“You can’t tell me…”

“It’s best if you don’t interrupt me at this point!” she shouted. “So,” she went on, in a softer voice, “if you consider that on any given day of the week you would probably make the teas twice, that’s fourteen times a week. OK so far?”

He grunted.

“OK. Let’s call it fourteen times fifty weeks. That’s seven-hundred a year. Then by twenty-five… well, I worked it out to be seventeen-and-a-half-thousand! Can you believe that?”

Silence from below.

“Now,” she went on, “when you consider that most times you make my tea, you use raw instead of white sugar; that would equate to around four-thousand times.” She giggled to herself. “Four-thousand; just imagine how mad that made me; how mad I am now. I must be fairly unhinged at this stage, to do this I mean?” She fell silent. “I hate raw sugar! It always tastes of molasses to me. You say it doesn’t, but it does, and I hate it.” There was a long silence. “Now, I need to leave you for a bit. This rope is pretty strong and I’m going to need my big sowing scissors.”

He started to scream again.

When she returned, she leant over and started cutting.

With the final snip, his eyes snapped open.

As he lay there, sweating and still trembling, he put things together. No alarm had been set. It was Sunday morning.

She stirred beside him.

He swung his legs out of bed. “I’ll get the teas, honey; with white for you, of course.”

 

It comes from a strange place; origin unknown.

It can be desired and summoned by some.

– 

It can depart suddenly or fill a moment.

It can be invoked, but holds its own wand.

– 

It can fill a place or be held in a moment.

It can be at one with love.

It can mingle with nature.

  

 It can remain out of sight or unfold without warning.

It can be made visible or reside in quiet euphoria.

– 

It can be evoked in music or dance.

It can be found in art, in song and in verse.

 –

It can be seen, but go unrecognised.

It can create its own place and stand on its own.

 –

It can be created, brewed but not stolen.

It can intoxicate, but defies any trickery.

– 

It can fill a smile and move a tongue.

It can frighten or sooth.

 –

It truly comes from a strange place,

But doubt not, that it can be…

 

The doctor felt that his patient would be a good candidate for the medication trial.

He was saying, “As part of the program you are required to call me daily. Is that a problem?”

“No. That’s fine.”

“That’s good because I need to make notes for a report on how the trial goes.”

“Yes. I understand.”

“Now, they’ll be no prescription or going to the chemist for this. I will do the necessary paperwork now and provide you with the medication.”

He typed away for a few minutes, then he handed her a small box of pills and a consent form. She took the box and signed.

“OK. You’ll see on the label there are ten tablets, to be taken one a day with a full glass of water; preferably last thing at night. That way you can call me on the following day.”

“Thank you doctor. I really appreciate you letting me get on this trial program.”

First call: “Hello doctor. I must say I was a little surprised that I have swollen feet and ankles. It seems to have come on so fast. Is that going to be a problem?

“No, not at all. That’s to be expected at this point in the treatment. I have a list here, provided by the pharmaceutical manufacturer, and that condition is a perfectly normal response at this stage.

Second call: “Good morning doctor. I noticed first thing this morning some flaking skin and several small black heads.”

“This is nothing to worry about, perfectly normal.”

Third call: “Hello doctor. Today I have several small boils and mouth ulcers.”

“OK. Nothing to concern us there.”

Fourth call: “Hello doctor. I am experiencing some really bad headaches and an attack of migraine.”

“Any vertigo?”

“No.”

“OK. I little unusual but no matter.”

Fifth call: “Good morning. I have to tell you that I have extremely itchy skin and during the night suffered quite badly with leg cramps several times.”

“Ah! That’s interesting; let me see now. No, that’s to be expected. Not a problem, Thank you.”

Sixth call: “Yes. Doctor. Well, today I am suffering from double vision and poor balance. I have to say, this program is really taking it out of me.”

“OK I’ve noted that. Look, you’re doing very well. I certainly recommend that you persist.”

“Thank you doctor.”

Seventh call: “Hello doctor. I have been feeling quite dizzy all day and did have an attack of vertigo.”

“Oh! It’s interesting that vertigo is a symptom being experienced at this late stage in the program. That will be a significant point for the report.”

“Goodbye doctor.”

Eighth call: “Hello. Doctor, I have to tell you that I am feeling very poorly.”

“I see, what are your symptoms?”

“Symptoms, yes, well, the rash has now virtually covered my whole body, stopping me from getting any sleep.”

Ninth call: “Hello. Is that you doctor?”

“Yes. I’m here.”

“Doctor, I have to say that I can’t go on with this program.”

“Look. I’m sure it’s hard. You do need to tell me your symptoms.”

“I feel awfully fatigued and,” a long bout of coughing, “yes, a terrible cough and I am feeling nauseous all the time and I feel horribly bloated… and I’m getting very irritable. I just can’t go on.”

After a pause. “That would be a pity. You only have one tablet left to take don’t you?”

“Well, yes, but…”

“I do have to point out that these tablets are extremely expensive, but they are only provided free to the trial patients… unless they do not complete the full course, that is.”

“Really?”

“Yes. This was explained in the consent form.”

“Oh!”

“At more than a thousand dollars a tablet, I don’t think you want to do that.”

“No, doctor.”

Tenth call: not made. No call came in during the day.

The doctor looked at his unfinished report and muttered, “I’ll have to call her tomorrow.”

He’d always liked science, especially chemistry.

He had been working on a particular formula for some time and felt he was getting close. The recipe was good, he even had the timing to bring the compound up to critical mass nailed down to the very second. Now, it all came down to balance. Recently, he had spent a lot of time getting the ratio of ingredients right. His teenage brother, younger by a year, seemed to have inroads into the local underworld. Negotiations with one of the top criminal organisations had got to the stage where it was obvious that if he could get it right, there would be a lot of money in it. His parents being away on holiday gave him the perfect opportunity to refine his product. He had told his brother, “If I get this right, what we have here is a compound that is around three hundred and fifty percent more powerful than nitro-glycerine.”

This new explosive would be a great asset to the criminal fraternity, for blowing safes and opening vaults, at the very least. The last crime boss his brother spoke to said if it’s successful, the various gangs under his control would pay big time for a steady supply of the stuff. His brother said he found it difficult to get a price for nitro, even using the internet, but he said patients in doctor’s surgeries where paying heaps for intravenous solutions of the stuff. No need to fix a price, once the compound was tried and tested, its value would sky rocket. It was only a matter of getting the formula stable for producing greater quantities. He knew there was a fortune to be made if he could only find the right balance. His brother would be home soon, but this was not the time to rush it. This would be the final test. Precision was everything!

He was measuring the last of the ingredients out when his brother arrived. When the sample was ready, the compound was tipped into the microwave safe eggcup, found to be ideal for the job, and after a gentle stir, placed in the centre of the microwave oven. He set the timer for four minutes and seventeen seconds.

As a safety precaution he decided that they should leave the kitchen. They went through to the lounge room and ducked behind the settee. The brilliant young chemistry student had always wanted to go to Cyprus for a holiday; his uncle went there and he just wouldn’t stop talking about it. That was his thought on the subject. He wasn’t about to have another.

The explosion occurred at the precise moment the microwave timer hit four minutes and seventeen seconds. At least he had that part right.

It left a crater almost ten metres deep and took out four blocks.

There was a hell of a stink!

The authorities saw it as an act of terrorism and upped the National Terrorism Threat Level.