Author: Alexander Fawn

She wrote the letter and he replied to it by letter, knowing that the guard who looked after the mail room was a nasty piece of work. By that, I don’t mean a piece of work of some sort that was carried out by someone lacking the skills to do the job properly, thereby producing something horrible. This is notwithstanding the distinct possibility that he would be most likely to bring such a thing about. Still, knowing that he read all the mail, both coming and going, fully served the prisoner’s purpose. The warder would certainly read it. The prisoner had seen him at his desk, pouring over the letters and stroking his ugly little goatee beard. Well, not quite a goatee; it was more of a cross between a Norse Skipper and a Chin Puff. Whatever it was, he didn’t like it.

When it came right down to it, he didn’t like the rest of his face either. It had splotches, revolting puce coloured patches. Not a bright and cheerful puce, like the dress his mother altered for a neighbour who was pregnant and wanted to wear it to a do being put on by the local Rugby Club. The do she never actually went to on account of her fiancé’s younger brother, who she was really fond of, came off his motorbike that afternoon and was in an intensive care unit in the local hospital. The prognosis was touch and go and they both spent that particular evening at his bedside. Whereas he recovered shortly after, the prisoner’s mother had a great falling out with the woman who refused to pay for the work she’d done, on the basis that she hadn’t worn the dress, and wasn’t likely to in the near future.

Be all that as it may, the man’s facial markings were no way near that attractive. They were not that kind of puce at all, more of a foreboding greyish red-violet, mixed with brownish-purple. Despite this, he must have read it because the police became involved and the prisoner received another letter from his wife. This one saying that a group of police officers had been there with shovels and had dug up the entire back garden. Of course, when she said they had completely dug up the whole of the back garden, this had to be a gross exaggeration, obviously. They wouldn’t have lifted all the paths or dug under the shed. On the other hand, all of the soil in the garden had been dug over very thoroughly.

The upshot of all this was that his reply to her request to plant vegetables, read, ‘Please don’t do any digging in the back garden’.

While the letter he was writing now, reads, ‘Now, would be a good time to plant vegetables.’

The calendar crawlers go about their insidious business.

Back and forth they go between the blocks of numbers. The matrix of a month, a year, a day; laid bare. All that is done and said viewed without shyness. Lives lit by spotlight. Thoughts and ideas that were once owned, now shared. They know what he did on Friday afternoon, and them on Sunday, and her on Wednesday night. Days made open, comments and activities seen. For these, their own lives not enough. Their activities, once bringing disgrace and social spurn, now regarded as acceptable.

From pigeon and parchment to paper and glass. The praises and clamour for the digital made loud enough to subdue any dissenting voice, telling of what new shape society is taking. The mirror of it now fuzzy, the ugliness made common. No more stealing across borders; passports not required. Going so easily from time’s numbers on the open grid. All this availability, riding helter-skelter on expanding technology.

To those not riding on the wave, choose your passcodes wisely!

Mum was forever doing really stupid stuff.

I mean, we kids used to love a lot of it. The funny stuff, that is. Dad just couldn’t take it, so he took off. We didn’t really miss him. He had no sense of humour. Mum would suddenly come up with one of her hair-brain ideas, right out of the blue, and off we’d go again. Some of it was deliberate, some of it not.

There was the time we were all; me being the only girl, and my two younger brothers, anyway, there was this time we all went to the shopping centre to get a few things. Mum made us all where balaclavas, her too. All the time people were staring at us, but all we could do was giggle. Mum really enjoyed that.

Some people said she was just plum crazy, certifiable, others said she had a death wish. We kids took no notice of any of this, after all, she was our mum. We were not at all popular with the neighbours. One time, the guy next door complained about mum’s laughing. He said it was maniacal and up set his wife.

Mum got angry. She got her own back by taking the jug of chilled water we kept in the fridge, called to him over the side fence, when he approached she tipped it all over him and yelled at him to chill out. Then she laughed, maniacally.

Anyway, the day came when we all came in a bit late, it was almost dark and we were expecting to get told off.

When we got in we found that the house was stinking with this really weird smell. It was all through the place, in every room. At first we couldn’t find mum, but she was upstairs closing windows. She came down explaining that we could smell propane. She told us how much she loved the smell of it. We just figured she was doing one of her peculiar things again.

Next thing, she went to the fuse box and cut the lights. We got a torch each and had fun wandering from room to room looking around and seeing how different things looked. Then she went to the cupboard and brought down the box of candles.

It was at that point that I realised… there was simply no hope for any of us…

He had gathered a really big crowd and was finishing his act with his longest sword, a sword that some members of the audience had confirmed was, in fact, extremely sharp! Just as he brought the hilt down to his lips a nasty little kid ran out of the crowd and threw pepper in his face! Well, you can imagine the crowd stood there boggle-eyed as the poor fellow finished his act with a performance none of them were expecting, and started to go berserk when some of the people at the front were spattered with blood! In the pandemonium the kid took off and it was some minutes before a policeman was on the scene.

Being told what had happened, he tried to settle the crowd down, while using his walkie-talky to call for an ambulance. Not that there was any hurry for that, and more importantly, he put out a call for any police car in the vicinity to chase the boy, who had taken off down the main highway. He told the crowd that they would soon run him down… By run him down, he didn’t mean actually run him down, of course. Unlike what had happened to the police officer’s brother the year before. That was a terrible case.

His brother had been orange picking in Greece; a sort of a pay-as-you-go type holiday. He was in this orange field. They call them fields over there, not orchards. Anyway, this field was on a hill and they were collecting the fruit in plastic crates and loading a trailer that was hooked to the back of a tractor. The brother had just got down from a tree when the trailer came unhooked and started to roll down the track between the rows of trees. He was pretty unlucky not to have heard it coming, as he stood looking out over the attractive view and the quaint little town below. Everybody was pretty upset and they didn’t pick any more oranges that day.

Anyhow, I digress. Pulling her jacket sleeve down, she managed to hide the tear in her blouse. Once inside, she was ushered through to what they called the blue visitors room. She had been there a couple of times before, or maybe three or even four, to be more accurate, but regardless of how many times it was, she’d wondered about the name it had been given. From the first time she’d entered it, she had the feeling that the room wasn’t exactly blue. In fact she thought it was more of a turquoise. Not only that, it was a turquoise that had less blue in it than green. This aside, she sat and waited a couple of minutes; more like five or six, in fact. 46!

She had never found the canvas backed chairs at all comfortable, she felt the material was rather coarse on her back. Canvas, was often made from cotton and linen, but sometimes either hemp or jute are used. She surmised that when these backs were made, the rough surface came about with the use of jute. Even so, she waited patiently, as she had a particular request to make. She was keen to do a bit of gardening while he was inside. She thought she’d plant a few lettuces to start with. She wasn’t sure what type of lettuce she wanted to plant, it would probably have been either Goldrush or Buttercrunch. She thought it would most likely be ‘Buttercrunch’. She was sure he wouldn’t mind, but she should ask because normally he spent more time out there than her.

He came through and sat. They chatted happily for around their usual thirty minute visit. It was around thirty minutes… then, before she left she asked the question that had been pressing on her mind since she’d arrived. When I say pressing, I don’t mean… no matter. His response took her by surprise. He said she should put the idea off for a week. At first she was disappointed, but when she questioned his decision he became very angry. This in itself may have contributed to his being sent to jail in the first place, although that would be pure speculation. Having learnt that it was best not to argue with him, she agreed to wait. She could see that he was earnest.

Now, it goes without saying that his name wasn’t necessarily Ernest, as this was never disclosed as part of the joke. Yet, being strictly logical about it, from all of the many hundreds of given names that he could have, there has to be the possibility, no matter how slight, that this was indeed his name. To move on, whatever his name was, he calmed down and explained what he had in mind. When she got home, she was to write a letter with the request in it and send it as soon as she could. He promised to reply with a positive response within the next few days. She was very happy with this and probably began discussing the merits of Goldrush and Buttercrunch, when the bell sounded for visitors to leave.

Mike Hike liked to jog,

His wife preferred to walk,

And so, when perambulating,

Never could they talk.

He was leaving, he’d simply had enough.

They had told him he could pull through if he really wanted to. They had told him that; the doctors, the nurses, even the orderly in the elevator as he was being wheeled back to his room. But the truth was he no longer wanted any of it. In fact, he’d rather leave it all behind. They wouldn’t understand that, would they? No, not a chance. After all, it was their job to keep all these people going; keep them alive. It was their mission, the motivation that kept them all there. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d been back in a place like this. He wasn’t in pain. Not at all. Just existing with inoperable issues was his lot. He was far from being a candidate for euthanasia. Not at all. Many of those around him were far more deserving of that.

He’d seen enough, heard enough, smelled all he wanted to smell. He’d experienced a lifetime of watching children grow up, moving house, losing loved ones, taking holidays, watching movies, reading poetry, listening to concerts, planting seedlings, looking at the stars, attending church and swimming in pools… All this had to go. He could slip away quietly in the night. He’d leave it all behind. He’d take nothing with him. Others could stay and enjoy it all; the walks through well-tended parks with their ponds and their flowerbeds, the concerts with orchestras made up of wonderfully talented musicians, all playing in harmony, the vacations in the sun with waiters serving by the pool, and the art galleries, wonderful museums and exhibitions. All those wonderful places; He would leave them all for others to enjoy.

Is it all right to simply have had enough of it all? He thought so. He wished he could explain all this to others, with the hope that they would understand. These next few hours would pass quickly enough. There would be no fuss with his leaving. When they found him in the morning he would look peaceful.

He was sure of that.

I wanted to tell you this quick joke that I heard the other day.

Well, when I say the other day, it was probably more than a week ago now, or even two. Anyway, it’s all about this guy who’s doing time in prison for bank robbery, who gets a visit from his wife; although strictly speaking she wasn’t exactly his wife, more of a partner you should say. She’s been married before and was in the process of getting a divorce. When it was all settled, they planned to marry. Anyway, like I said, she visited him in prison. The day she arrived at the front gate she was upset with herself. She had wanted to look her best for him and had dressed herself nicely in her best clothes that morning, but had accidentally caught the sleeve of her blouse as she was getting off the bus. It was now rented.

When I say it was rented, I don’t mean it was rented, you know, rented. Rented, as in hired or something. It was, in fact, her own blouse; although to be strictly accurate, the blouse was still the property of her older sister. She had left for America some years earlier with her sword-swallowing boyfriend. They were planning to start up a street double-act in New Orleans. She had to leave several of her clothes behind. She couldn’t take them all you see. It was understood that her younger sister could use whatever she wanted as long as they were all there in good condition when she returned. That made two reasons the wife was upset about the blouse being rented.

It should be pointed out that the wife’s father had not been too keen on his oldest daughter going off like that. He found the notion of them making any kind of living over there hard to swallow. Well, no, I didn’t mean it in that way; the sister’s boyfriend didn’t find it at all hard to swallow. He was really good at it! He had been taught by a master and knew all the rights and wrongs of it and how to perform. As it happens, something did go horribly wrong for the boyfriend’s master. It had happened not long after he had finished his training; maybe a month, or maybe a bit longer. The incident occurred when he was giving a performance one Christmas eve at the entrance of a shopping centre.

She went to the zoo with her parents.

It was a special opening day, with an exciting new exhibit. This would be the first time that any of these creatures were put on view. It was the first of the zoological gardens anywhere to be granted permission to show them publically. Of course, nearly everybody had seen pictures of them, along with some videos that gave an idea of how they lived in their old environment. As the family worked its way slowly around the park, the girl became impatient. Her father smiled and explained that it was just good management to save the best until last. The special, new enclosure that had been built for them was situated at the very back of the grounds.

At last they came to it. The ground cover and the trees that had been planted were all very peculiar. They had been told that there were two of them. One of each gender. A strange little shelter had been built for them. At first they could see nothing. Then, they emerged.

The girl just stared for the longest time, watching the strange way they moved about. One of them came right up close to the metal netting and looked directly at her. She was frightened by the weird look of the thing, but stood her ground. It was the eyes that held her. Such peculiar eyes and so very sad.

She asked, “Will they be alright?”

“We hope so. They’re not sure how they’ll adapt to this environment.”

“Are there many of them?”

“No. Not many. The Elders haven’t given out many details yet. Only a few were saved. These are the lucky ones.”

“What are we going to call them?”

“Well, it seems that some of their records did survive the global nuclear annihilation, so they’ll probably be called what they used to call themselves… humans.”

Both were criminals, but with different skill sets.

One was an arsonist, while the other an enforcer. The former sent to torch the place. The other, charged with keeping an eye on the property. It was a large warehouse, empty save for a recent, and extremely large shipment of drugs stacked in one corner under a tarpaulin, waiting for distribution. The firebug had dowsed the place thoroughly and had rigged an incendiary device with a timer. He was covering it back up when he heard something. He looked around to find a man entering through a small door at the far end of the building. As he approached, he pulled a hefty looking hand gun from his jacket pocket. He held it up at shoulder level, pointing it directly at the other man, as he made his way towards him, maintaining eye contact.

When he was only a dozen or so metres away, his foot caught something and quite suddenly he was stumbling forward. As he went down the gun flew out of his hand and rattled across the floor. He jumped to his feet quickly and saw where the gun had ended up. The torch man also saw where the gun had ended up.

The two men stood, gauging the distance. There was nothing in it. The weapon had slid to a halt midway between them. They stared at it, transfixed. It was certain that if one of them moved, they both would. There was no going back now, it would be him or him.

One of them took off and they both went. Like two charging bulls they met head on, literally. The sound of their skulls cracking together echoed around the warehouse. They both went down, out cold.

A few minutes later, the device exploded with a thunderous boom. The shipment was burning ferociously in an instant, while the two corner walls collapsed outward, weakening the roof structure. Moments later the entire roof began caving in. Several minutes later, when all emergency services arrived, the whole building was flattened and still burning.

In pragmatic terms, it was hard to put any real value on any of it.

I was sick and tired of being mistreated.

The girl was forever stretching me to a point very close to breaking. She never used me properly. I was just something she could mistreat. Sometimes I’d be shot across the room. Then, one day she dropped me as she got off the bus and a boy picked me up. His family had been picnicking in a park. I went into his pocket and jiggled around until he dropped me onto a kitchen table.

I heard a woman say, “What’s that?”

I heard him say, “Found it.”

She said, “Is it clean?”

He said, “Looks OK.”

She said, “Just run water over it and dry it with that towel, please dear.”

I was suddenly wet for the first time in my life! Then after the towel, I was twisted twice around several handles.

She said, “Just the job, no more cutlery getting lost in the bottom of the picnic basket, eh?”

The basket has been put up on a high shelf, I don’t think they go on picnics very often. I hope not. It’s nice here. My tension feels about right, in keeping with my purpose.

All in all, not a bad life for a hair tie.