Author: Alexander Fawn

Harry had a little lamb,

How well cooked, he didn’t know.

But everywhere that Harry went,

The pain was sure to grow.

–

It stayed with him all day that day,

His ache becoming cruel.

No more roadside vendors,

He’d been such a fool!

The evening was warm and he was sitting on the veranda reading his book.

This latest story was particularly gripping. His penchant for the supernatural, especially ghost stories had always been his main literary interest. As he read, he became more and more engrossed. After a while he caught sight of a shadow out of the corner of his eye. He looked around, but of course, there was no one there. The ghostly descriptions in the pages of his book were truly compelling. Moments later, he jumped. It was as though someone had tapped him on the shoulder. Again, looking around, he saw nothing. Just as he was settling down again… well, it was as though something tried to get his attention by lightly stroking his ear!

He’d had enough.

Annoyed, he closed his book and went in.

This time of the year, moths could be a damned nuisance!

From the get-go, he had everything going for him.

He was brought up in a wealthy family. Both of his parents played professional roles in society. He received the best education. He was good at sport and literally cruised through university. The longtime girlfriend he’d been dating since his first year at Uni would have to be described as a real looker. Leaving academia with a doctoral degree in the field of literary studies, he soon found a well-paid position in the corporate sector. His glamourous girlfriend became his trophy wife soon after. From that point on, life went swimmingly, with the purchase of a large house that they planned to fill with children when they considered the time was right. This, together with a car each and the installation of a swimming pool.

His problems began when it was found that for medical reasons the time would never be right for them to have children. As time went on with the ongoing research into other ways of starting a family, their relationship soured. Following several months of unpleasant bickering, they divorced. She found solace by marrying a merchant banker and moved abroad, while he found comfort in a twelve-year-old single malt scotch whisky. As a result, he became a severe alcoholic in less than a year.

Now, with his employment terminated, his unpaid domestic bills steadily mounting, and the business of feeding himself and maintaining his oversized dwelling becoming an increasing financial problem, he sits in a bleak and lonely room contemplating his demise.

He ruminates on how often he has been haunted by the thought that during that first year in Uni, he really should have paid more attention to the tubby girl with acne who was always particularly nice to him…

He was confident that the world would see him as a good man.

Moral rectitude had been his byword ever since he was old enough to understand the concept. Anyone who knew him would say that he always treated others with kindness, was always quick to give a helping hand to those in need, and forever doing things for other people. He cared about others and was considerate about their needs. In fact, building new relationships came easily to him and was never given to complaining or being negative. He was genuinely thoughtful, had strong values and a friendly disposition. He was a good listener, taking note of what others were feeling. He was well mannered, kind-hearted, gave regularly to charities, quick to praise others and not one to hold grudges. He’d always been understanding when others made mistakes. He was honest with himself as well as he was to others and naturally generous without expecting anything in return.

In fact, he had lived an exemplary life… with barely a slip, but there was one; just one.

He looked around his cell, and thought about it. The slip that has him serving a life sentence for first degree murder.

It had probably all started with him getting a puncture.

He sat, trying to remember. Although, before that came the phone call from his neighbour, telling him about the tool shop selling screwdriver sets at half price. That might have been after the sink in the laundry blocked. There again, this was preceded by his daughter calling in and asking about the best way to get rid of the mildew on her Zinnia. Afterwards, he’d been on the internet trying to find out which of the streaming services had the old black and white, nostalgic movie, his wife said she would like to watch again. Ahead of this came the man at the front door, asking for a donation for the wild life charity. The way he remembered it, this was followed by the sound of an ambulance’s siren passing down the street. Previous to any of this, he’d been in the local shopping centre buying a newspaper.

Then, he’d driven home…

He wasn’t at all sure where the puncture came in!

After the unexpected greeting she was never the same.

It happened one Thursday morning on one of her days off. She was a part-timer at the local sugarcane factory. She entered the kitchen, still feeling drowsy after an extra-long lay in. This late start to the day probably gave the insects extra time to get themselves organised. She didn’t notice the writing on the fridge at first. The kettle was switched on and the coffee and sugar spooned into a mug before going to the fridge for milk. It stopped her dead in her tracks. It looked as though someone had used a black, felt-tip pen to scribble on her fridge door. It said, GOOD MORNING in block capitals. She immediately thought that she’d had a break in and rushed off to check whether the house’s two outer doors were locked. They were.

Returning to the kitchen she was frozen to the spot a second time. The message now read, WE’RE HUNGRY. After a lengthy time spent blinking and pinching herself, she moved forward. It was then that she could make out that they were actually tiny creatures, most of them only making minute movements, but at the same time maintaining enough order for the message to remain legible. There were over a hundred of them; teeny black ants.

Without any hesitation, from the cupboard, she took down a can of insect spray. She then approached the fridge, saying, “OK. Try some of this!” and stood back. She watched them begin to drop off one at a time, until they were all gone from the door. Now she had a scattering of the filthy dead things on the floor. She grabbed the dustpan and brush and swept them up. She was about to tip the bodies into the waste bin, but changed her mind. She turned the water tap on and emptied the pan into the swirling water. When they were all gone, she put the plug in, just to make sure.

Although she would never talk about it, it had been at this point that she had stopped to realise just how calm she’d been throughout the entire ordeal. Furthermore, she was certainly proud of the way she had disposed of the problem in such a composed yet assertive manner.

However, after that, she was never the same…

He was an early riser.

He’d always liked to start his day early.

He was in the bathroom when he heard the doorbell go. He wasn’t sure what time it was, but he knew it was really early, much too early for someone to be at his front door. Anyway, he was grateful that he was up. His alarm clock had been playing up lately. It sounded a second time. He stopped shaving for a few beats. He stood staring at his face, half covered with shaving cream, wondering who could be calling at such an hour. Could it be important? He was considering all this, when it rang again. Should he wash his face, put his dressing gown on and go down? He didn’t think so. Annoyed, he finished shaving.

He was dressing when it sounded a fourth time! Should he now be alarmed, or was it kids, just playing a prank? Surely, any decent person ringing his door bell at this ungodly hour would have given up after ringing a second time, with the intention of trying again later.

When he finally opened the front door there was nobody there, but there was something on the step. It was a small parcel, very small. Taking it in and opening it, he realised what it was. Something he had ordered online more than a month ago!

Wasn’t he meant to sign for it?

It could be that he was never really cut out to be a wizard.

In fact, from the time he was taken on by the Grand Sorcerer for his initial training in the mystic arts of wizardry, it had not gone well. He suffered from a growing feeling of dissatisfaction with how slowly the whole traineeship programme had taken. This had gone on for the best part of a year. So far, he barely managed to keep this to himself. Certainly, he had been taught how to perform a number of spells, but nothing really major. Just simple transitions on small animals. Nothing to get excited about. Unbeknown to his tutor, he was becoming increasingly bored with trekking into the forest, five days a week, to spend several hours in the old sorcerer’s grotty little hovel. His sense of building impatience was becoming harder to keep under wraps as the final few days drew near.

On the last Friday, the day he would be presented with his graduation certificate, his anticipation of being able to move on from the ongoing rut he’d been stuck in, made all his negative feelings simply disappear.

As he entered the grubby old shed, he was confronted by the elderly wizard, holding up his unfurled certificate with a grin on his face. Moving closer, the student could see that he had been graded as third class!

Two things happened very quickly, he snatched the certificate from the old man and with a slight twitch of his hand, turned him into a frog.

Most people regarded him as being a problem.

It was late afternoon. He’d not been home long from school. His special school, of course. He sat at the table in his room. He was staring at his homework. He closed his eyes and slumped back in his chair. It was a maths test. He was told that the teacher had prepared it, especially for him. He just didn’t get on with numbers. In fact, he had several problems with both maths and English. There was the ongoing problem he had when learning new words. He also had trouble remembering words. He knew that he wasn’t good at spelling or pronunciation. He had always experienced a lot of difficulty when he was learning to read. This wasn’t helped by a delayed speech issue.

The whole thing was made so much worse by his not being any good at following directions or instructions. His parents and his teachers had explained that he had a learning disorder. The nine-year-old had been told that he had problems with understanding and processing information.

All in all, he knew that he was a problem.

He sighed and looked back at his homework.

Once more, he thought about how he’d really like to be somebody else…

He and his late wife had visited many countries from around the world.

Now, several years into his retirement, he was only left with memories. It had been their passion. Every year, having saved very carefully to cover the expenses involved in travelling overseas, the fares and the accommodation, etcetera, they managed to visit the cities and towns of their choice. It began soon after their marriage, discovering that they weren’t able to have children, and continued as regular as clockwork. Unfortunately, their time together came to an end and the plan to visit Bolivia was never realised. Looking back over the years since then, he had often thought about how excited she had been about visiting the ‘Witches Market’, a popular tourist attraction located in a mountain clearing in La Paz.

He thought about how she was always seeking out shops that sold strange items, everything from unconventional jewellery to bizarre artifacts that promised good fortune. The market in question would have been an ideal place to wander through, with its strange medicinal plants, magic talismans, powders and potions. This, their final trip abroad, never happened.

It happened on a Saturday. He was sitting, reading the paper, when he came across an intriguing article about a recent case of fraud. The owner of a small, jade figurine had tried to have it auctioned as an original. The claim was that it was the missing piece from a set of three; the other two were held on display in the city’s museum of art. It was said to be the third piece from the Qing Dynasty.

Had it not been discovered by the auction house to be a clever fake; it would have been worth well over a million. However, although it had been beautifully made, the expert for the major auction house had checked the base, looking for a specific Chinese character, and found nothing.

Reading the article, something stirred within him; memories of such a thing, seen as a child. Driven by nothing more than curiosity, he lowered the ladder and climbed up into the loft. This was something he hadn’t done for so many years. Everything was covered with dust. Fortunately, the natural light was good. There were boxes, bags and cases scattered around the open space. He knew it comprised mainly of memorabilia from his parents, and probably their parents. He knew he would have to sort through it someday. This was probably a good time to at least make a start.

He had a vague recollection of what he was looking for. As a young boy he had been told to be careful when allowed to hold it. His mother must have thought it had some degree of value.

From the time he began opening and searching through the contents of the attic during the late morning to the moment he set eyes on it during the afternoon, more than five hours had passed. Lifting it out of the cardboard box, he saw that it had been wrapped in tissue paper. Taking it closer to the light, he carefully wiped away the coating of dust with his handkerchief and examined it. He turned it over and found the strange character, neatly carved in the base!

Standing motionless for several moments, and with very mixed feelings, he said, “Bolivia!”