Author: Alexander Fawn

What is this place that comes to me,

While sitting beneath this willow tree?

Watching a peaceful stream glide by.

Above, a never changing sky.

Swans flapping to and fro.

Fish swimming far below.

Insects crawl where they belong,

While birds provide their happy song.

Canopies that shade mushrooms growing,

Autumn leaves forever showing.

Ivy intertwines the trees,

With floral scents upon the breeze.

Dew drops falling one by one.

All is dappled by the sun.

Distant pines sway together.

They never know inclement weather.

Fairies dancing here and there.

Waltzing butterflies in the air.

Unicorns saunter without care,

With flowers blooming everywhere.

Bluebells waving happily.

Time suspended indefinitely.

Nature’s canvass never tainted.

Only waiting to be painted.

What is this place that comes to me?

Precious, yet provided free.

It’s magic of a special kind,

It grows within a poet’s mind.

The detective entered the interview room and dropped the file down on the table.

“Good morning,” he said with a grin. “I just thought I’d pop in for a chat.” He looked down at the file, then up at the suspect. “I’m sure you’re just dying to tell me what you’ve been up to; helping yourself to things that simply do not belong to you.”

The suspect dragged his thumbnail across his lips, indicating that he wasn’t going to say anything.

The detective’s eyes glazed over slightly, then he laughed and said, “Ah! That’s good, very good, your mouth has been zipped.”

The suspect slowly nodded.

The detective grinned again and mumbled, “Marvellous invention zips.”

The interview room fell silent. The suspect frowned, and let out an involuntary, “What?”

The policeman was obviously enjoying himself. “Zips,” he repeated.

The other sat glaring.

“Yes,” he went on, “invented by a chap in the late eighteen-nineties. Then, the modern version, the one you and I know today. Yes, it was improved on and really took off a couple of decades later.”

The suspect stared in disbelief.

The detective sat nodding, he seemed to be deep in thought. “My word. Awfully clever things; based on the wedge and hook principal.” He leant forward and tapped on the folder. “It’s all about making things come together, you see. Coming together and staying together.”

The suspect was becoming visibly agitated.

The detective went on. “He was a travelling sales man, the guy who first came up with the idea; name of Whitcomb. What kind of name is that, eh? First name Whitcomb.” He held up his hand, “No. Don’t answer that.”

“You know, these things have dozens of tiny teeth with weeny hooks and hollows. I mean, what an invention! It’s hard enough to invent the idea that these miniscule, odd shaped components should all lock together like that, but to figure out how to actually make it! Think of it, a thing like that; to manufacture all those separate bits so perfectly that they mesh; they just come together!”

He made a slow hand movement.

“And you slide this thing, I forget what it’s called, backwards and forwards to open and close the whole thing. The simplicity of it. The cleverness of it.”

He snorted. “Just think about how long it takes to button things up. You know, a shirt, a jacket.”

His eyebrows raised. “Did you know they have to manufacture a special tape, just for zips?”

He clasped his hands behind his head and gave out a long sigh. “I mean, people like us, the good and the bad of us, we just pale into insignificance.”

The suspect said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Of course, you don’t,” replied the other and opened the file. He read for a moment. “Would you like to know?”

The other just shrugged.

“What we have here, received from forensics earlier this morning, is a thumb print.”

The suspect stiffened.

“One beautiful thumb print. I must say you did a pretty good job of wiping the jewellry shop clean before you left, what a tidy fellow you are, but… you missed just one nice, big, clear thumb print.” He held up the evidence sheets and jiggled them.

“I’m not saying anything.” The suspect growled.

“No. I wouldn’t expect you to. We have you cold on this one and you’ll be spending time for it.” He sat back in his chair. “I’d like you to be truly amazed when I tell you that your place has been turned over and we’ve found the loot.”

The other’s head dropped.

“Do you see what I mean, now? About things coming together, I mean. I do like it when things come together.”

The suspect was still staring at the copies, now laying on the table. He sighed and said, “OK. OK. No point now in… well, denying or anything. Just tell me what all that zip stuff was about.”

The detective put his head back and closed his eyes for a minute.

“Oh! I don’t know. This can be a pretty boring job, really. You have no idea how mundane it gets sometimes. It’s always me that ends up doing the interviewing, and to be honest, I just get sick of it!” He closed his eyes while he massaged his face.

“Can you imagine,” he went on, “how many suspects I’ve had to interview in this room over the years?” He put his hand up. “No. Don’t bother. Not even I know the answer to that. Just about all of them had to be worked on for hours, and in most cases with no result. Just think about how mind-numbingly boring that is. But you…” he looked at the robber and wagged his head, “…you, my friend, are a piece of cake.”

He picked up the papers and slid them into the file. “How easy was it, eh? You leave a nice piece of evidence that you were in the jewellery store on the night of the robbery. They wipe all the glass cases ready for the next day, you see. So finding the print you missed wasn’t that hard.”

The robber said, “What was all that stuff about zippers? Did you just make all that up?”

“No. Watched this interesting documentary about it a couple of nights ago.” He chuckled softly to himself. “I mean, with the evidence we had on you, I could have jumped straight in with it. I could have been out of here in less than a minute, but there’d be no fun in that, right?”

The robber went to speak.

Before he could say anything the detective said, ‘that would have been so boring!”

He stood up. “You have no idea how satisfying it’s been, teasing and annoying you in here today. There should be more of it. Honestly… taking things that don’t belong to you, it’s very naughty.”

He chuckled again as he left the room.

For him, Monday was never a good day.

There had always been something about it, beyond the fact that it was the beginning of the working week. Something else; something sinister.

When he looked in the bathroom mirror, he scowled when he saw that his acne was coming back. Then, he took a cup of tea to his wife, in bed. He forgot her usual serving of three sugars. She spat it out, all over her brand new bedspread; a present from her mother. On the way in to work his car broke down. He had to leave it at the garage and go in by bus. The only bright spot would have been his usual coffee, at his usual café, served by the lovely waitress that always made his day, but she was off.

He got to work late. During the morning his paper jammed in the printer, burst into flames and all the smoke alarms went off.

The building was cleared and they all stood out in the street waiting for the fire brigade. It started to rain, heavily. When they all finally got back inside, his boss called him into his office. He handed him a week’s notice.

On his lunch break he rang his wife with the news.

She hung up.

He lost his wallet somewhere on the bus getting home. When he got home he found her packing her bags. She was leaving for good. When she backed out of the driveway like a maniac, shouting that he would never see her again, she ran over the neighbour’s dog.

All in all, he didn’t sleep well.

On the following morning, it was Tuesday. Tuesday is a different day. It is not a Monday. Never was. Now he can move on with his life and create a whole new future. He will go into the café as usual, albeit by public transport. With no wallet, he would have to pay for his drink with loose change. It didn’t matter. He will sit there and think about what it all means. He will be served by that sweet angel that has somehow taken on human form.

He entered and found his usual spot. A good sign that, he thought. He just needs to let all this other stuff go. Reinvent himself. Boldly go where no man… whatever; he would forge forward towards a greater, brighter destiny. Besides, the lovely waitress always made him feel better about things.

After a minute or two, the Arcadian nymph that only looks like a pretty waitress, glides over to his table.

She smiles her lovely smile and says, “Can I get you your usual today?”

He freezes. Her words strike home. In that moment he is thrown into a whirlpool of mental agony. He is swallowed up by a great, dark cloud. He finally looks up as she comes slowly back into focus.

“My usual today… today… usual,” he mutters. “I wish you could get me my usual today.”

She waits patiently.

He frowns at her. “I lost that yesterday!”

He had books, folders and sundry paperwork spread over the cubicle’s table.

He sat studying in his usual spot. The local library was the ideal venue for working on his course papers. It was a small cubicle, one of several that ran along the wall, just large enough for a single bench seat and sufficient room to pile up reference books along with his own stuff. He was studying medicine and was in the process of producing a paper on crude drugs; those medicinal drugs that are derived from natural sources. It had been going well until he heard a rustling in the booth behind him, with a phone going off almost immediately.

A woman answered, saying, “Oh! Hi! How’s it going?”

There was a pause.

“Nothing much. You?”

Pause.

“Really?”

There was a long pause.

He looked around, wondering if it was worth gathering his stuff up and moving.

The woman said, “When did this happen?”

Pause.

“Poor kid. Did he need an x-ray?”

Pause.

“Yes, better to be safe, I always say.”

Pause.

“Well, that’s something I suppose.”

Pause.

“What about Tiger Balm?”

He pricked his ears up.

After a pause, she went on, “Eh? Not really, I know it’s analgesic; old as the hills.”

Pause.

“What’s that?”

Pause.

“No. I didn’t!”

Pause.

“What a cheek!”

Pause. The medical student sighed and began closing his books.

“She didn’t!”

Pause.

“What did you say to her?”

Pause.

“I don’t think so.”

Pause.

“What! While he was still there?”

Pause.

“Is he still working there?”

Pause.

“But, if it was drugs, why would they do that?” The student stopped packing his bag.

She went on. “Not really, I met her at a cooking class. That was ages ago.”

Pause.

“Dunno, but he was forever quoting bits from Corinthians, so it doesn’t surprise me.”

Pause.

“I know.”

Pause.

“He’s OK.”

Long pause.

“No. The boss decided to redesign it instead.”

Pause.

“Somewhere in Egypt, I think.”

Pause.

“Yep. Me too.”

Pause.

“Is it?”

Pause.

“No, I hadn’t heard.”

Long pause.

“Do you mean actually in the cinema?”

Pause.

“Who was?”

Pause.

“Do they know who did it?”

Pause.

“Don’t know. You never met his mother, did you?”

Pause. The student was resigned to come in again on the following day to finish his research.

The woman said, “OK.”

Pause.

“OK.”

Pause.

“Don’t forget the Tiger Balm. Bye.”

As the student left the library he made a mental note to look up Tiger Balm.

He’d never heard of it.

As she left the last shop she checked her list.

It had taken an age when she considered her plastic shopping bag only contained four items. As it happens, none of them were for her. On the list: jar of pickled gherkins, pregnancy test kit, kitty litter and jumbo-sized paperclips.

An extra-large jar of pickled gherkins for her brother who collects bugs; he just wants the jar. He dropped the last one and some of his specimens escaped. He told her that the jar was a perfect, size, shape, and everything. Who could argue with that?

A pregnancy test kit for her friend, who works at the canning factory on the edge of town. She convinced her that she really couldn’t bring herself to go into a shop to buy one herself.

A small bag of kitty litter for her Mum’s phone. She dropped it in the sink and has had it drying out for a couple of days. Then she found out that you could bury it in a bag of kitty litter to dry it out.

A box of jumbo-sized paperclips for her boyfriend who has a passion for modelling little art pieces with them. He made a bicycle once, using large paperclips and a couple of cardigan buttons.

She was on her way to the bus stop when she saw the girl from her office, who was about to enter a coffee house when she was spotted and received a friendly wave.

She was nice, but a hell of a gossip. What the hell! It would be good to get the weight off her feet. She gave her a smile as she approached. They went in together and found a table.

“Hey! I’ll get them,” she said, “I’ve just had a successful morning’s shopping. It’s my treat.”

Not really thinking, she put the bag down and went to the counter. The bag gaped open and the girl peered in.

When she returned. The girl said, “I must say, you have an unusual collection of items in there.”

“Don’t ask!”

The valley was beautiful.

He looked out across the vast slopes of green. He could see, and just about hear, the gushing flow of the river as it meandered through the length of it. Its pattern seemed to replicate the twisting road that brought him here. Despite its isolation, it was certainly magnificent country. Everything looked so fresh from the recent rain. Mother Nature at her best. His close colleague had told him about the place, how he had visited the area when he and his wife toured here last year. Looking at their photos had been the clincher. From that moment he wanted to come and see for himself. Now he was actually here, he would have liked to tell someone about the scenery spread out before him, along with a picture, but his mobile phone was not accessible.

Was it the wet conditions, a lack of attention to the road, or too much gazing out at the view?

All of the above.

He had to mentally re-orientate the scenery since the car had landed on its side. He hung to one side uncomfortably, with the seatbelt jammed. As the vehicle had rocked slowly to a standstill he had watched his mobile phone slide out of sight.

Although he had seen no other vehicles on this stretch of the road, the man at the motel had assured him that this route was very popular with tourists.

Sooner or later, a vehicle would come along, until then… he had the view.

 

The girl had always enjoyed feeding the birds.

Today the park was less busy than usual. This made it easy for the woman to keep her eye on her daughter while she walked around with her paper bag. This was despite the fact that she was a fair distance away. The mother was quite content with the wooden bench, catching up with her magazine.

There were a number of birds flitting around and generally following the small child, happily wandering to and fro with the bag full of birdseed. Every now and then she seemed to stop and carry on a conversation with a bird. This had been going on as long as the mother could remember. It had been a concern at first, but both the doctor and her teacher had said it was nothing to worry about. Kids often dream up imaginary friends she was told. It was perfectly natural.

At one point she saw her sitting down in deep conversation with a bird. She could see her chatting away, dropping seed from time to time. This went on for ages. Finally she got up, waved goodbye to her feathered friend and ran back to her mother.

As she approached, her mother said, “You had a nice long time with the birds today, didn’t you dear? Has all your seed gone?”

The girl looked into her bag and said, “No, some left.” She looked back to where she’d been. “I found a chatty one,” she said. “He was lovely. Told me a lot about his friends and his mum and dad and…” She stopped. “You know, some of the birds were very unkind to him.”

“Unkind? What do you mean?”

“Well, his young brother got hit by a car. He died. It was very sad.”

“Oh! Dear!” said the mother.

“Yes,” she went on, “they blamed him, said he should have taken better care of him because he was older.”

The mother looked perplexed.

“I mean,” the girl continued, “what could he have done? They were really rotten to him.”

“Well,” said the mother, remembering the medical advice, “you certainly found out a lot today, didn’t you.” She gave her an understanding smile.

“Yes,” said the girl, scrunching the top of her bag closed, and he said we should move on, because it’s going to rain.”

She looked around. I think we should go and stand in the Pagoda, it seems to be empty.

The mother smiled at her again. “Yes, it would be empty my love. On a nice day like today.”

“But the rain!” the girl insisted.

The mother laughed, and looked at the sky. “I think that’s highly unlikely, besides, we don’t have an umbrella.”

With that, there was a giant clap of thunder and it bucketed down.

After a few minutes he came to.

He didn’t know where he was or what was happening.

Before this, he banged his head and knocked himself out.

Before this, the chair wobbled and he fell onto the kitchen floor.

Before this, he climbed up and reached for the rice.

Before this, he took one of the chairs and placed it in front of the larder.

Before this, he saw the new bag of rice up on the top shelf.

Before this, he opened the larder and found his rice canister was empty.

Before this, he took the chicken out of the fridge.

Before this, he decided on left over chicken and rice.

Before this, he made a cup of tea and sat thinking about what he would get for tea.

Before this, he took his jacket off and laid it over the back of a chair.

Before this, he entered the house and went through to the kitchen and put the kettle on.

Before this, he got home and walked up the front path and put his key in the lock.

Before this, he got off the bus at the end of the street.

He remembered getting off the bus…

She was visiting her friend.

She had known her a long time. At school they had been the best of friends. After a kiss and a hug, her friend said she’d put the kettle on. From the armchair in the lounge the visitor called out, “And little Johnny?”

“With the ex,” she called back from the kitchen.

She came back with two cups, saying, “That’s not exactly true.”

She puts the cups down on the table and flops into the chair opposite. She sits quietly for a moment, then says, “He’s with the man who used to work in his uncle’s hardware store.”

She stared out of the window for a moment.

“The man who smiled at me,” she went on, “the smile that stayed with me through those long days before I met him again.” She smiled softly. “The man who kept inviting me out to the pictures, so many cinemas, so many films. The man who one day admitted he was only doing it so he could spend time with me. The man who said he wanted to be with me, forever. The man who once loved me.”

Her eyes watered. She sipped at her drink and returned her cup with a trembling hand.

“The man I married in the church not far from here,” she continued. “The man that said that giving him a son was the best thing anyone had ever done for him.” Her head shook, and a look of desperate misery came over her. She looked across at her friend, who was still sitting silently.

She wiped tears away and said in a weak voice, “He, who wanted to visit the local pub more often than me. Who took to drinking at home, who lost control of his drinking habit, who lost his job, who would get so angry. The man who broke my tooth. The man who broke my heart.”

She forced a grimace. “That’s who he’s with.”

Her friend lifted her cup slowly and said, “Right.”

People had always regarded him as weird.

The man looked down from his third-floor window counting the brightly coloured gnomes in his neighbour’s back garden. This, in itself, would be of no consequence, but the fact that this was done at least twice a day, was. He was a man who lived mainly in the past, trapped in his origins, beginnings that, although quite bizarre, brought him to where he was. He slipped into one of his regular yet sudden flashbacks and remembered how as a kid he wanted to wear his cap backwards like all the other kids, but he couldn’t because to do it always gave him nosebleeds. That, and how he was forever getting mysterious rashes.

As he stands staring out, he reflects on his father’s preoccupation with picking hairs off any bars of soap he found in the bathroom. How he liked to do it in private, even when others needed to use the toilet. In his head he could hear the knocking. He didn’t find the sound at all unpleasant.

He reflected on the fact that so many times he would open his school lunch box, only to find it empty, and how his mother found the prank so incredibly funny. He thought about how she took great pleasure in getting brain freeze by swallowing ice cubes, and how she would sort the mail by smelling each letter for several moments before opening them.

Then, there was the time his father tinkered with his equipment and managed to play the National Geographic’s sleep-inducing video titled ‘Rain Forest’ backwards, with sound. He remembers the pungent cloud of opium smoke that often drifted throughout the house, and how fervently his father had worked on his treatise on molecular structures and how he frequently referred to the topic, despite it making no sense, as comparable to the business of stuffing scarecrows.

He ruminated on how his mother, after one of the many blazing rows with his father, would get her revenge by lighting up a cigar, also, her frequent seizures that came on whenever her mood ring turned blue, together with her randomly selecting books, removing them from the study, piling them up on the back lawn and setting them alight.

Of course. There was his father’s obsession with the coming of the new world order, his hatred of queuing like a sheep to book in for a flight, within an airport’s silly bollard and rope chicanes, and his habit of accumulating his toenail clippings in a large jar under his desk.

These parents, now passed away, together with the fact that he had no brothers or sisters, meant that the apparent madness ended there, with him.

He glanced at the clock. He would don his dress suit and call for a taxi. He would arrive at the concert hall in plenty of time. He would sit at the incredibly expensive Steinway piano long before the curtain rose. He would enthral the audience with a rendition of Mozart’s Piano Sonata in D major, before slipping away through the rear exit to walk the six blocks home.

This would be time enough to return to his ruminations about lunch boxes, scarecrows, soap hairs, and the rest.

He focused again on the garden below. He would have just enough time, while there was still sufficient light, to count them again.

Reasonable enough; yet, people had always regarded him as weird.