Author: Alexander Fawn

He sat sipping his beer, lost in thought.

The small bar was tucked away in a quiet part of the town. He sat at his usual corner table. It was a great place to sit and wind down after his studies, only a short walk from the university. He was a psychology student and had been studying hard, working towards his finals. Usually, this was a place where he could sit quietly and just think about it all.

However, on this particular night he was jolted out of his reverie when a small boy, no older than seven or eight, came into the bar and ordered a beer. Moreover, he made his request in a deep, mature voice that should have belonged to a man in his fifties! It was certainly a strange case, and considering what he was studying, one that intrigued him. Without drawing attention to himself, the student listened intently to what was being said. It was certainly a man’s voice, low and gruff. There would have to be some very interesting psychological issues at play here and the student began analysing what it meant.

The barman was saying, “Any luck, solving your… your problem?”

“Not yet, but I’m working on it,” the boy replied.

The barman said, “Good.”

The boy lowered is voice. “I think I’m in touch with a bloke who can help. Fingers crossed.”

The barman said, “Look mate, I understand your situation, you know I do, but I’m getting nervous about the local police giving me a visit. I think word is getting around.” He leaned forward. “You have to see it from my point of view. For all intents and purposes I’m serving a minor.”

The other nodded. “Yes. OK. I should probably stay away until I get this fixed.”

The barman, looking around, slid the glass across, saying, “Thanks mate, appreciate it.”

The student could hardly contain his excitement. This would be such an interesting study case for his final thesis. In fact, if he could only get the boy’s agreement to undergo some psychoanalytical sessions, it would be perfect. It was obvious that the boy was traumatised by his bizarre condition and would need to be approached carefully.

After a few minutes, seeing that the barman had moved away, he got up and made his way to where the boy sat with his hands clasped around his glass. He drew up a bar stool next to the boy and whispered, “Excuse me. I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation.”

The boy turned with a fearful expression.

“I’d really like to help if I could,” the student urged.

The boy’s eyebrows shot up.

“Oh! Really? Do you know anything about Voodoo?”

He was thinking back to a previous time, but wasn’t able to fully focus on any of it.

His ex-girlfriend had always been a little weird, but he really thought they were meant for each other. He knew from the start she was part of some mystic cult. Not that they spoke about it much. Although she would sometimes go on about the use of cosmic energies to manipulate matter across space and time. She would sometimes hint at the real possibility of the molecular restructuring of matter. None of this ever made much sense, as far as he was concerned, but he used to love the way she’d get so excited, just talking about it.

She had a girlfriend who owned a pet shop in town. They were the best of buddies and had known each other a long time. They would visit the shop occasionally, and when they did she would spend ages walking around the pens and cages, talking to the animals. She was certainly a lover of nature and seemed to bond with whatever animal she talked to.

He should have realised that all good things tend to come to an end. It happened on their return from one of their visits to the pet shop. He thought it had gone well. Again, he had stood wondering at the almost supernatural affinity his girlfriend seemed to engender with so many of the creatures that resided there. It was then that he made what he considered to be an entirely innocent comment about this unique talent. Her reaction to this remark was unexpected. A violent argument followed and he was eventually told to sit back on the settee and undergo some deep breath exercises.

Looking back, he had no idea what had actually happened next. He only knew that he was quite comfortable and really couldn’t ask for more.

She was visiting him now, talking softly; making him feel calm and happy.

Although he did get the feeling that he was not the only one she came to visit.

But hey! Look on the bright side, he thought. The carrots you get here are really good!

The lonely scribbler is a king,

For he can conjure anything.

–

Despite the endless definitions,

Rhymesters are the true magicians.

–

Conjured words here and there,

Waiting, floating in the air.

–

Magic flowing from a pen,

May shake a writer now and then.

–

A journey along a mystic way,

With corporal notions held at bay.

–

Glimpses of an immortal world,

The magic curtain of rhyme unfurled.

–

Time to wonder, time to think,

Capturing poetry with ink.

–

Common words, their worth concealed;

See the power that they yield.

–

Lines may be loose or terse,

When breathing magic into verse.

–

Matter taken from a world external,

But based on life from time eternal.

–

Mundane truths and worldly dealings,

All wrapped up in a poet’s feelings.

–

Notions take the breath away.

Brushed aside, they tend to stay.

–

Passing judgement’s not the goal,

While looking at another’s soul.

–

Like burning embers turning cold,

As the span of day grows slowly old.

–

The nightly scribbler wears a crown,

Until his magic pen lays down.

She was struggling to get her into the costume.

Her mother was saying, “Please, pet, you need to stand still while I get the back fastened.” She struggled some more, saying with a tone of encouragement, “I’m sure you’ll give a wonderful performance.”

The girl was pouting and still wriggling.

“I wanted to be…,” she mumbled.

“What, dear?”

“I really wanted to be a rabbit!”

“I know dear, you already told me that, but all of the other animals have already been given to all of the children in your class. I know for a fact that your teacher really needed someone to be a lobster.”

She waved her cardboard claws, saying, “I’m not surprised.”

“Well, no dear, perhaps not, but that’s just the way it is. Now; please stand still.” She fiddled a bit more and stood up. “There! All done. Take a look.” She pushed her daughter over to the mirror.

She stood, staring at her reflection. “But, I’m all pink!”

Her mother sighed, “Yes, dear, lobsters are pink.”

The girl said, “I don’t like pink; it’s sissy.”

Her mother suppressed a smile. “I’m sure lobsters are quite happy being pink.”

“Yes, but, I don’t want to be a lobster,” the girl replied, still whining. “Why couldn’t I be a rabbit? Rabbits are nice and fluffy. Why do I have to be a lobster?

Exasperated, the woman looked at the time. “Right. We have to get on now, our next-door neighbour will be here soon with her son. What is he going as, do you know?”

With a shrug of her shoulders, the girl said,” Don’t know,” followed by, “Don’t care.”

Just then, the doorbell rang.

The mother pointed to the door. “I think it would be nice if you answered that.”

She said a reluctant, “OK,” and swaggered off, with her costume flapping and rustling.

Moments later, the mother heard a scream. She rushed to the front door and found her daughter crouched against the wall, sobbing.

The mother opened the door fully and looked out.

He was a rabbit…

 

I bought a beautiful figurine of an owl in this expensive gift shop.

It was probably close to the size of a real owl. As I came out, this perfect stranger looked at my owl. I thought, wow! He’s looking at my owl. I made my way to the coffee shop with my owl tucked under my arm. The girl who took my order looked at my owl. She made a mistake and had to ring it up twice, I think it was because she kept looking at my owl. The barista looked across at my owl. As I moved to a table, customers were looking at my owl. The waitress nearly spilt my coffee, she kept looking at my owl. Another waitress came and asked me if everything was to my satisfaction, although she only did it so she could look at my owl.

On the bus the driver took my fare, then he looked at my owl. I was holding my owl higher now, as it was getting heavy. Everybody that got on the bus looked at my owl. Everybody that got off the bus looked at my owl. I began to wonder why so many people kept looking at my owl. I figured it could just be that you don’t often see someone holding an owl. There again, I felt sure that some of them at least, wanted my owl. I could understand that, because if I were them, I would want my owl. There was no doubt that it was a beautiful owl. It was probably the best owl I’d ever seen. Most of the way home, I just sat, looking at my owl.

I finally got home with my owl. I put my owl on the table in the corner. It was just me now, looking at my owl.

Just me.

She knew about the woman at number twenty-seven.

In fact, she had known for quite some time. Time enough for her to sit quietly scribbling in his absence. Well, more plotting than scribbling, actually. She had to admit that although the circumstances that brought her to this were extremely annoying; damn it, she had always done her best to be a good wife to him; anyway, despite all that, the truth was she positively enjoyed it. She had been aware of his comings and goings, all under the pretence of attending practice nights at the chess club. She had sat planning like this for so long, scribbling away, searching the Internet then scribbling some more.

It had occurred to her that because this had been the case over so many quiet evenings, she may very well find boredom setting in, after it was all managed. The fact that it was a double plot kept her busy for the time being. Timing was everything. That and the technology employed. It was simply amazing what you could find on the World Wide Web. Part of her plotting strategy was to continually delete her search history files, not that he ever looked at her laptop. The other was to do all her planning on paper, which once firmly in her head, got shredded.

He was tinkering with the gas boiler in the basement when it blew up.

She was visiting her mother at the time.

At the funeral there were a number of people from his work and a few friends. Enough to form a small crowd around the grave. Of course, she was there. She from up the road was there. Dressed in black, sobbing, occasionally looking over at the grieving wife. The widow was biding her time, waiting for the right moment… and there it was. The woman looked across the grave and the widow gave her a wink. The impact was immediate, although it was doubtful whether anyone else would have noticed. The widow found the look of shock and a small amount of terror in the woman’s eyes an absolute delight. But it would get better.

Moving around the mourners, quickly and quietly, the widow came up behind her late husband’s lover. Without making contact with her she whispered into her ear.

“Just thank your lucky stars that I’m going easier on you.”

As she moved away to return to her place, she was aware of the commotion she had left behind. The lady from up the road had fainted.

It was two days later, at her workplace, the woman received the telephone call, advising her that her house, number twenty-seven, was on fire.

After that, it all settled down. The woman from up the road moved. The widow enjoyed the fruits of her labour. But… but, after just a few months of role-playing over her poor dead husband, it started. It was that feeling that she had suspected might creep in on her. It did just that. It had been such a thrill, she had experienced such a high level of sheer excitement before, her life now felt horribly flat.

She sat with pen and paper, hoping to retrieve some of the euphoria. It wasn’t working.

There again, there was this guy in the office…

What a project that was.

At the time He thought it was one of his best. It had all come in on time and on budget. He’d put a great deal of work into it. There was nothing wrong with the original idea. He puts him down in this lovely garden then gives him a companion. The rules were simple enough, but they screwed it up big time. It all became a bit of a mess really.

It was at that point that He nearly gave the whole thing away. He had thought seven days would be enough. He may very well take a bit more time with any future projects.

He was looking down with dismay. He knows He should really stop looking at it. Of course, there was nothing stopping Him from scrubbing the entire universe thing altogether.

He could simply do something else. After all, when it came right down to it, He could do whatever He liked.

He’d think about it.

Endings are fine as far as they go,

Like the end of a schedule for a three year blog!

Endings for readers, it’s best not to know,

With some too obscure to see through the fog.

–

You can annul, you can stop, cease or finish;

Cancel dissolve or annihilate.

You can bring to an end or draw to a close,

Wind up, conclude or terminate.

–

The concept of complete finality

Is awesome and second to none.

Like a moth flying into a flame

Or a snowman left out in the sun.

–

When the last domino falls,

When all is said and done,

To be silly, it’s better to be at the end of a poem

Than at the end of a gun.

–

To consider a paradise lost,

With an end to all hopes and dreams,

But with happier tales in books, shows and movies,

They all have to end it seems.

To see the hourglass’s sand ebb away.

To watch as the stars lose their glow.

To be present when the last clock stops…

Then, endings are fine, as far as they go!

They had been travelling for some time when she spoke up.

“Are you sure you know how to get there?”

He said. “Sure.”

“I don’t recognise any of this, shouldn’t we have stayed on the main road?”

“No, we’re fine.”

“I think we’re lost.”

“We’re not lost, just relax, will you?”

“OK. I suppose I can be relaxed and lost at the same time.”

He blew out a breath. “We left late, if you remember,” he said, looking at her accusingly.

“So?”

“Well, you know, it makes you more rushed, more open to mistakes.”

“So you’re admitting to making some kind of mistake are you?”

“Not at all, I’m just saying…”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying we’re not lost.”

After a while she spoke up again. “I don’t care what you say. I’m sure we’re lost.” She looked out at all the unfamiliar sights going past.

“No, we’re not lost. We’ve just gone a little astray that’s all.”

“Astray?”

“Yes. It’ll be fine. I’m looking for a turning.” He glanced at her. “I need to concentrate.”

Moments later, she said, “I did say we should get a car with one of those navigator things in it.”

“Too expensive.”

“We could use one now,” she said.

He scoffed. “Not likely. I don’t fancy having some weird voice telling me what to do all the time.”

“You can turn the sound off.”

“You can?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know that?”

“Man at work told me.”

He was silent for a while. “Well, I didn’t know that.”

“There you are, see? If we had one of those, we wouldn’t be lost.”

“I keep telling you. We’re not lost!”

“I think you should pull over, before we get more lost.”

He sighed. “You can’t get more lost.”

“No?”

“No. No such thing. Lost is lost.”

“Is that an admission?”

The frustration finally got to him and he pulled off the road and parked on the grassy verge.

He took out his mobile phone, looking for maps.

He looked at her with raised eyebrows, and said, “We are lost.”

“So, you do admit it?”

“Sort of.”

“What do you mean, sort of?”

“We’re lost in time.”

She looked at her watch. “In time?”

“Yes. The barbecue’s tomorrow.”

I saw him again today.

He looked so good in his suit. He probably wears it for his work. I’ve never seen where he works. Somewhere important, I’m sure. He probably has a lot of responsibilities; I’m sure he does.

He certainly looks after his hair. Every time I see him, he looks as though he’s just come from the barber’s.

He always seems so relaxed.

I’ve watched him walking through the shopping mall, from one end to the other. I was up on the gallery floor, looking down. I must have been there for ages just staring down. I love the way he walks.

I saw him talking to somebody once. It was in the street and he stood chatting to this other man. It looked as though he knew him. I watched his face, his expressions, the easy movements of his hands and his arms as he talked. He would be lovely to talk to.

And his smile! The first time I saw him smile my heart fluttered. Sounds corny I know, but it did.

Of course, it seems so silly that I’m making all this up.

But I’ll recognise him when I see him.