Author: Alexander Fawn

He knew it was going to be a mixed bag when he sent out the invitations.

Thoughtful got there early to set up the chairs. Unsuccessful texted to say it couldn’t come. Successful arrived in a limousine. Trustful didn’t bother to lock his car. Healthful came straight from the gymnasium. Reproachful complained about the lack of parking. Disrespectful didn’t wipe his feet on the way in. Grateful wouldn’t stop thanking the host for the invitation. Suspenseful only said he might turn up. Forgetful left her glasses at home. Resourceful got a lift from a friend. Unlawful parked in a no-parking zone.

Distrustful locked his wallet in the car before going in. Helpful mucked in whenever there was the need. Mistrustful was accompanied by his personal taster. Wilful insisted on moving people’s chairs around. Forceful insisted that everyone take a serviette. Unheedful ignored the sign saying that the urn’s water was hot. Tearful kept talking about her recently deceased hamster. Unfaithful brought his mistress. Colourful told lots of jokes and sang foreign songs. Skilful carried four glasses of wine across the room without spilling anything. Guileful was planning to pocket a few fairy cakes. Harmful kept treading on peoples’ toes. Spiteful hurt a woman’s feelings with nasty comments about her dress. Merciful forgave the woman who spilled coffee over his suede shoes.

Resentful didn’t see why she should have to sit near the kitchen. Unhelpful kept removing plates that were not empty. Respectful bowed a lot. Wasteful said he never ate the crusts. Mirthful laughed about everything. Truthful didn’t like the fish paste and said so. Watchful kept looking out of the window. Ungrateful complained that there wasn’t enough food. Slothful kept asking his wife to get him refills. Overcareful refused to have more than half a glass of anything, in case of spills. Shameful was continually blushing, but nobody knew why. Untactful commented on a man’s big ears.

Cheerful had nothing but happy thoughts. Sorrowful had just lost a favourite uncle. Unhopeful said the world would soon end. Stressful was worried about the economy. Beautiful held the attention of the men. Frightful wore black and green makeup. Prideful was at pains to show off his new suit. Fanciful was sure that the host was a warlock. Dreadful thought that personal hygiene was overrated. Blissful was absolutely content with everything. Plentiful had everything he needed. Deceitful lied about his credentials. Scornful had contempt for the government. Hateful didn’t like anything. Peaceful seemed to be in a state of permanent rapture.

Bashful sat quietly in the corner. Vengeful explained how he had poisoned his neighbour’s dog. Blameful kept finding fault. Wistful just stood thinking most of the time. Powerful was reporting on his promotion to Managing Director. Careful was cautious in his conversations. Weariful always felt tired. Regretful hadn’t invested in cryptocurrency when she should have. Disgraceful swore a lot. Unhealthful was grossly overweight. Boastful was forever showing off. Wrathful was angry about life generally. Reposeful fell asleep at the table. Playful wanted to play hopscotch out the back. Wishful wanted everybody to stay all night. Doubtful wasn’t sure whether he should have come at all.

He knew it was going to be a mixed bag when he sent out the invitations.

It’s just as well he was mindful.

Dreams of water gushing from a tap;

Sugar cubes dissolving;

Glasses with a broken lens;

An entrance door revolving.

–

Finger warts and steaming coffee;

Sunlight bursting through the trees;

Ants appearing in a sink;

Smoke from burning leaves.

Sliced strawberries on a plate;

Eggs sizzling in a pan;

A book with a broken spine;

An empty watering can.

–

Loose change in a beggar’s hat;

A broken window pane;

Wrappers in a gutter;

A length of plastic chain.

–

A warm summer wind;

A book’s dog-eared pages;

Overcrowded shops;

Empty parrot cages.

–

Branches falling from a tree;

A door left ajar;

Paper peeling from a wall;

A noisy speeding car.

–

A broken cup and burning toast;

The chirping of a bird;

A feather laying in the grass;

A paint tin fully stirred.

–

A worn broom and a broken toy;

A carpet badly stained;

A rusty bucket and wrapping paper;

A growling dog that’s chained.

–

Just a bible and a carving knife,

But here we look for meaning.

Scattered pieces of our life,

With our sleeping intervening.

They sat together, watching birds pecking at unknown somethings in the grass.

They hadn’t been going out very long, but were comfortable with each other.

Him: So, what’s it saying?

Her: What?

Him: What is it telling the world, I mean?

Her: Eh?

Him: Your rod, with the balls on it.

Her: Oh! (She touches her eyebrow) this?

Him: Sure.

Her: It’s a barbell.

Him: OK. A barbell, but what’s it saying?

Her: It’s not saying anything.

Him: It must be saying something.

Her: (Elbows him) Are you having a go at me?

Him: No! I’m being friendly. (Gives a small smile) Honestly. Just wondered.

Her: Wondered what?

Him: You know.

Her: No. I don’t. What are you wondering.

Him: Like I said. What’s it saying? What do you want it to say? What is it telling the world? You know, about you?

Her: About me?

Him: Of course. Everything about you says something about you.

Her: (Cuddles closer). It does?

Him: Sure. Your clothes. Your hair. Their all giving out signals. Their all saying, ‘Hey! Look at me! This is who I am. This is me.’

Her: You mean, like the way you do your hair or whether you wear lots of bright colours or just grey things.

Him: Exactly! All those things. Hairstyle, makeup, all those things you choose to show the world.

Her: Yes. OK. I get it now.

Him: Right. Well then… what’s it saying?

Her: Dunno.

The businessman was hardly aware of the hat on the pavement.

It may well be the case that he wouldn’t have stopped if his phone hadn’t sent out a merry jingle. He answered it and stood. He seemed to have little interest in what the caller was saying. Hardly aware of the beggar and his old hat, he stood listening and fishing out coins from his pocket. They fell with hardly any sound into a hat that was almost empty. He didn’t seem to see where they landed. He was now telling the person that this item was not his priority; they would have to wait.

The beggar glanced at the hat and wondered what it would be like to tell someone they would have to wait. He looked up at the man. He figured he would have a nice home away from the city. A home and a pretty wife and a car and smartly dressed children and money in the bank and regular holidays…

He suddenly became aware that his benefactor was moving off. He called out his thanks. The city gent just flapped his hand without looking back. His phone had gone off again. This time he didn’t stop. No doubt it was someone of even less importance than the last someone. They’re probably about to get shoved into a holding pattern as well.

The beggar watched him go. He guessed he would be around his own age, give or take a year or two. He was wearing the uniform of a successful city gent. The beggar’s uniform had only ever been army camouflage.

How is it that he didn’t go out there and I did?

Maybe he did.

Then, how is it he wasn’t posted to that hellish town?

Maybe he was.

Why is it that he had to be alongside one of his best mates when the rocket came down?

He didn’t think the man had ever been there.

He didn’t think he had laid awake at night seeing what he had seen, over and over.

He knew he hadn’t come back and been designated unfit for work.

He knew he hadn’t come back to a wife that couldn’t cope or kid’s that couldn’t or wouldn’t understand.

He hadn’t come back to find the solution to it in a bottle.

No. He hadn’t come back to this, with nowhere to sleep.

He hadn’t gone away to any of that, and he hadn’t come back to any of this.

This man in the suit. This man who had just dropped coins so casually into his hat. He could so easily have been this man. He could have been him.

But hey! It’s no good blaming him. It’s the ones you don’t see that are to blame. The warmongers. The powerbrokers. The only ones to truly benefit. They want what the others have got. They don’t share. They just want.

His head shook as he dragged his hat nearer and did a count. Just short. The guy that runs the pub in this part of town was friendly, he’d probably waive the full price.

After that, he’d be up to facing the nightly problem of finding a place to sleep.

His pruning was interrupted.

It was late in the afternoon when the nice old gentleman from number twenty-seven was half way up his ladder, sawing through a dead branch. As it fell to the ground he glanced across his rear fence and couldn’t fail to notice that the old lady that lived there, dressed in what looked like a nightie, was tip-toeing across the sloping roof of her back lean-to.

Transfixed by this bizarre sight and at the same time wondering what she was up to, he was abruptly woken out of his speculation when she fell. He watched in horror as she did some sort of pirouette, fall over and tumble off the end of the slanting roof, landing with a crash somewhere out of sight.

Although thoroughly shaken by what he saw, he immediately climbed down and ran to the fence. There, he soon realised there was no way of climbing over it. Instead, he ran out into the street and raced around the block. When he reached the house, he found the front door closed. He then ran down the side, only to find a locked gate barring his way. Moving back a few paces he ran at it. He injured his shoulder badly doing this, but the gate broke open.

As he rounded the house he found the old lady lying unconscious. He could see blood trickling down her cheek. He knew it was best not to move her, so he went into the house and found a telephone. He called for an ambulance, then sat down next to her, nursing his painful shoulder. Within minutes the ambulance arrived and they were both taken to hospital.

Over the following days the newspapers pronounced the man a hero. He was thanked by local dignitaries, appeared on the TV news, had articles written about him, and was waved and smiled at by his neighbours. He was privately bathing in the unaccustomed glory of it all, while maintaining an air of modesty.

Meanwhile, in hospital, the old lady who had remained unconscious for the first couple of days, finally woke up. When she came to, very much to the amazement of the doctors and nurses, she had her own version of the events that put her there. She claimed, with great passion, that the man from number twenty-seven was, in fact, Gregory Peck, who in cahoots with a gathering of conspiring warlocks had contrived the whole affair. This, she said, was particularly upsetting for her, as she thought Gregory was absolutely splendid in ‘The Omen’.

Naturally enough, little heed was payed to this, or passed on in any way by hospital staff. This meant that our rather elderly knight in shining armour knew nothing of these allegations.

It can be said that in a fairly humble way, on learning that she was awake and recovering, he was certainly looking forward to visiting the patient. As he approached her bed, she sat up, pointed and screamed, “That’s him!”

Thanks was sometimes something you just didn’t get.

The young student who discovered the mistake was never thanked for it.

After much intense study he discovered that the present day calendar that we all rely on so naturally, without giving it a moment’s thought, is three days out. At the time that this error occurred, there had been so much discussion in academic circles about the year now being calculated to be 365 days, but followed excruciatingly by so many decimal points, brought about the slipup. So much attention being placed on the preciseness of the length of the year had let this faux pas go by unnoticed.

The printing company that flooded the market with its printing of the calendar, mainly due to its clever, eye-catching design, was responsible for the cockup. Of course, this calendar having been distributed not long after the Julian calendar was dumped and replaced by the Gregorian calendar, which conveniently rounded off the number of days to 365 and made up any shortfall by creating leap years, was a major factor in the bungle. So, because this howler occurred towards the end of the late eighteen hundreds, it went completely under the radar until the student in question did some serious digging.

At first the researching student could not believe that such a whacking great blunder could possibly have gone unnoticed. For this reason he went on for a further two months of intensive evidence gathering before deciding that his results were valid enough to make his findings known. Not knowing what authority should be made aware of such a stupendous booboo, he approached his university mentor.

The professor had a lot of time for the young man and had found his commitment to study had always been excellent. Despite this, the very idea that such a gaffe could have taken place, all because of a typo in a printed calendar, popular or not, was quite beyond belief. For this reason the professor took on the task of checking and verifying his student’s research papers.

The professor, after spending more than a week working through his student’s papers, came to the devastating conclusion that his research was correct and indeed the present day calendar was out by three days. It was a fiasco. He began to see the ramifications of it. There were global economics to consider, trade route schedules, share dividends, time locks on vaults, church services, passports, birthdays, TV programming, repeat episodes, and of course, calendars!

It was more than a fiasco, it was an imbroglio beyond anyone’s imagination.

Considering the false notion that it was a Thursday, and knowing full well that the day was in fact Sunday, he decided to spend the rest of the day in church.

He was last seen on the Friday, or more accurately the Monday, leaping from the university belfry, with witnesses saying they heard him screaming something about typos.

On the following day, the Saturday, which was in fact the Tuesday, the student followed his example.

This being the case, and being most fortunate for the rest of us, the truth of the matter has never come to light.

One, two,

Buckle my shoe;

Something of a different brew.

Three, four,

Knock at the door;

Playing with words galore.

–

Five, six,

Pick up sticks;

Poems and stories intermix.

–

Seven, eight,

Lay them straight:

Special meanings they create.

–

Nine, ten,

A big fat hen;

Tapping keys and moving pen.

–

Eleven, twelve,

Dig and delve;

Imaginings to note and shelve.

–

Thirteen, fourteen,

Maids a-courting;

Ideas and thoughts assorting.

–

Fifteen, sixteen,

Maids in the kitchen;

That’s what such lines are rich in.

–

Seventeen, eighteen,

Maids a-waiting;

Tale and verse generating.

–

Nineteen, twenty,

My plate’s empty;

Stop now; that is plenty!

His friends would be thrilled with this addition to their weekend sport.

The tennis ball machine had a big hopper. It was a bargain. Second hand from a local school that had upgraded to a newer model. He’d take it to his friend’s place on the weekend. His friend has a tennis court out the back. Just about every Sunday their small group would turn up for a game or two. Now they could also get some serious practice in. Even one player could practice on their own, because it had a delayed feed to allow the player to reach the play position. It had arrived the day before and he hadn’t tried it yet.

Anybody who knew him would say he was reserved in nature. In fact, he had spent his entire life avoiding any kind of controversy. Despite this, he was excited at the prospect of seeing the thing work. He took it out of the shed and set it up on the back lawn. He loaded it with a single ball, carefully lining it up to hit the back wall of the house, away from windows.

Well, that was the plan. It went with a satisfying thump, but the aim was too high, and it hit the roof and bounced over the top of the house. He was adjusting the angle when he heard the crash, followed by several more.

The ball had struck a cyclist on the side of the head, causing him to lose balance, and tumble off into the middle of the road. An approaching truck had swerved violently to avoid running the man over and so doing had mounted the curb, bringing down a street lamp and eventually jack-knifing, coming to a standstill across the entire width of the road. This was immediately followed by three more vehicles ploughing into each other, with one bursting into flames.

It is not at all certain how long he stood there frozen to the spot, but watching a cloud of black smoke rising beyond the roof of his house reanimated him. He quickly wheeled the machine back into the shed and snapped the padlock.

He heard the sound of the ambulance as he made his way unsteadily through the house. Stepping out through his front door he was confronted by a terrible scene. Again, he just stood, unable to move. Eventually he moved forward into his front garden, where he stood with many other surrounding onlookers, watching the ensuing chaos.

Moving to one side to get a better look he kicked something. Glancing down, he saw the offending tennis ball. He immediately took out a handkerchief and pretended to blow his nose. He also pretended to drop it. Stooping, he wrapped it around the ball and stuff it all into his pocket.

He had always avoided any kind of controversy.

They lay together beneath the great oak tree.

A solitary couple, laying on a thick bed of brown leaves, holding hands. It is an isolated place, so far away from the beaten track that few ever come here. Only those that know of the existence of this wonderful example of Mother Nature come to this place. The distant drone of traffic can only just be heard. The residential area seems to be so close, yet so far from this idyllic spot.

They lay perfectly still.

They are not young lovers. The man and the woman are both in their fifties. They come here each year to lay and to look up into and through the magnificent spreading branches of this ancient oak. There is a blue, cloudless sky, beyond the branches and the leaves.

It is a private thing. This is where he was found.

“This may be what he saw,” she says.

“Yes,” he murmurs.

“This may be his last view of things in this world,” she says.

He nods and they fall silent again, paying homage to the missing member of their once happy family, their ardent tree-climber.

Eventually, their hands release and they stand.

They carefully brush one another off, then slowly make their way home.

Alone.

It was an expensive wheelbarrow, and all padded out to make it more comfortable.

They had found a new shop to visit. The security man standing at the entrance of the supermarket, looking very much like a soldier, gave them an odd look as they approached, then took out a handkerchief and held it to his nose. The girl was used to this sort of behaviour and just rolled right on past him, into the store.

Halfway down the first aisle she stopped to look at the magnificent selection of sandwich spreads in tiny jars. She was peering at one of the labels, asking it if it fancied a little tuna and lobster spread on its meat, when a fellow shopper tripped over the appendage.

The girl bent down and lifted its tail and tucked it back in next to it.

“So sorry!” she said.

The other woman sniffed indignantly and walked on.

“Do try to keep it in with you,” she said and wheeled them forward again

She had no real intention of buying anything, she just liked looking at all of the things on the shelves.

It began running its claws down the sides of the barrow, making a horrible screeching noise.

“Don’t do that Pungus,” I’ve asked you before, it only brings attention to us.

It wriggled and grunted a couple of times, as a sign of not being happy.

She stopped to look back down the aisle. In an effort to cheer it up, she said, “Do you think you would like anchovy sandwich spread instead? It‘s on special this week. I could probably afford to actually buy a small jar.”

Pungus growled and shook its head.

Just as she was about to suggest another flavour, someone said, “Magnificent horns!”

The girl turned, “Pardon?”

An old man stood staring into the wheelbarrow, looking the creature over. “I said your, umm, your companion, has magnificent horns.”

“Oh! Thank you. Did you hear that Pungus?”

It nodded enthusiastically and gave a big smile, bearing all of its long yellow fangs.

‘And those eyes, do they always glow orange like that?

“Yes, most of the time. If it gets angry they go red.”

Just then, the enormous thing in the wheelbarrow threw its head back and let out a deafening belch, which materialised as a huge cloud of blue mist that slowly rose up to the ceiling. At this point the store’s alarm went off, and this was followed shortly by all of the overhead sprinklers starting up and spraying down, soaking everything.

“Oh! No!” she yelled, as she ran out into the street, along with all the other shoppers.

She almost ran with the barrow to get away before too many questions could be asked. Eventually she stopped and caught her breath. Her love of perusing shop shelves was so often cut short like this. It was some sort of reaction she supposed.

After a short rest, she went looking for another shop.