Author: Alexander Fawn

The two uniformed men sat in their military vehicle looking out at the bad weather.

Things seemed to be going from bad to worse. Firstly, the storm, accompanied by sleet and snow being whipped along by severe winds, and secondly, their military manoeuvres being disrupted by a nasty traffic accident. Well, more than disrupted, brought to an untimely standstill. The night being extremely cold, the unfortunate gentleman that had been mowed down by the speeding vehicle had been moved into a nearby building. The two men sat shivering in a large truck that had seemed to become immobilised owing to the freezing conditions.

One of them said, “We need to call this in.”

He switched the two-way radio on. There was a lot of crackling. He starts calling.

“Come in, Drover, over.”

“Are you receiving Drover? Over.”

“Repeat, are you receiving Drover? Over.”

“Repeating again, this is Clover, are you receiving me Drover? Over.”

“Roger, this is Drover. Can hardly hear you Clover, over.”

“Same here Drover, you’re only just coming over, over.”

“This is Drover. The signal is weak. We’ve had and upgraded antenna changeover, over.”

“This is Clover, Drover. Our operational manoeuvre’s schedule is running over, over.”

“Copy that. It should have been a pushover, over.”

“Yes, but a pedestrian was knocked down on the crossover, over.”

“Say again, Clover, over.”

“A civilian has been run over, Drover, over.”

“Copy that, Clover, over.”

“We are waiting for the medics, so we can hand over, over.”

“Copy that, Clover. Has the storm blown over? Over.”

“No, Drover. We have been here so long we think the engine has iced over, over.”

“Copy that, Clover.”

“We are not sure whether we can get the engine to turnover, Drover. Over”

“Copy that, Clover.”

“We may be forced to stopover. Over.”

“This is Drover, the signal is breaking up again, come in Clover. Over.”

“Did you say hangover, Clover, over.”

“Say again Drover, over.”

“Clover, did you say someone had a hangover, Drover, over.”

“No, Drover. Said we might have to stopover, over.”

“Copy that, Clover, over.”

“Hello Drover, Ambulance has arrived. We’ll let the medics take over, over.”

“Copy that, Clover. Over and out.”

“Over and out.”

The radio operator switched off. He sat back and sighed.

“I think I’ll put in a request to have our call sign changed to Daisy.”

The other grinned.

“Good idea. It’d make communications a lot easier, moreover.”

The radio operator glared at him.

“Don’t you start!”

There is nothing like a carrot.

Carrots are really great.

Growing in the garden

Or sitting on a plate.

Eat them with a pile of peas

Or eat them in a cake.

If you want to see at night,

Eat them, for goodness sake!

–

But there are special orange friends,

Not sprouting from the ground.

Children love to cuddle them,

Even grownups play around.

–

These are the special ones.

They’re found in special places.

They’re the ones that come from a shop;

The ones with smiley faces.

–

We don’t get them from the garden

Or bring them home in bags.

They’re the sort we do not eat,

For they all have designer tags.

–

You have to keep your eye on them.

They have been known to wriggle.

And if you listen late at night,

You may even hear them giggle.

–

Carrots can be a comfort

To a girly friend of mine.

And they will bring back memories

From that time before,

When she was only nine.

It was a place to seek sanctuary and find answers.

The woman sitting in the pew at the back of the church was looking lovingly at her daughter beside her. The young child was dressed all in white, she wore a pair of butterfly wings strapped to her shoulders.

The woman remembered the question. “Mummy, can little girls fly?”

“Of course they can,” she had whispered.

The woman turned the pages of the scrapbook on her lap, her fingers slowly caressing each of the pictures in turn. “All you have to do is believe,” she had said. She remembered the joy she felt when her daughter ran through the house, crying, “Look at me Mummy, I’m learning to fly!”

The priest had noted the woman sitting alone, but had held back for a while. The woman was shaken out of her thoughts by the movement of him settling quietly beside her. He hesitated before speaking. “I thought you might want to talk,” he said. The woman nodded; she slowly closed her book and hugged it to her breast. Above her, she could see her daughter hovering in the vaulted ceiling. She turned to the priest and tried to smile. “We lived on the third floor,” she said. “All of the windows there looked out over the trees below. In the summer, butterflies would sometimes land on the ledge outside and my little girl loved to watch them. She said their wings reminded her of angels.”

She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. “Every day my little darling would ask if little girls could fly, and every day I’d tell her that they could, if they practiced a lot.”

She took a deep breath. “I came out of the kitchen that morning to find her standing on the ledge outside. She wore the butterfly wings I’d made for her, and when she saw me she started to laugh. ‘Look at me, Mummy,’ she cried. ‘Look at me, I’m ready now, I’m flying.’”

She opened the book and offered up a large coloured photograph of the girl in her butterfly outfit.

Above her, the butterfly girl was looking down smiling, gently flapping her wings, just floating.

The distraught woman turned and looked at the priest. “Why would I do that?” she asked, with tears streaming down her cheeks. “Why would I tell my daughter something that wasn’t true?”

The priest shook his head and fell silent.

He had been postponing the phone call for weeks.

It was such a longstanding family tradition that they spent the day and evening at his mother’s house each year on her birthday. It had become even more import after his father had passed away. He and his wife had done this every year since he had married and moved away across country. He was sure she felt they didn’t visit often enough as it was. He knew it meant a lot to her, but this year would have to be different. He wasn’t sure how to tell her. They had won the four-day stay at the beach hotel through a raffle and it couldn’t be changed.

For weeks he had known that he would have to tell her; for weeks he had been putting it off.

He punched in the numbers. Moments later he said, “Hi mum. How are you?”

She sounded really happy to hear his voice. “Oh! Hello sweetheart. I’m well enough. It’s nice to hear from you. How are you both?”

‘We’re fine thanks.” He paused. “I’m ringing about your birthday.”

She said, “Oh!”

“Yes, I thought I should talk to you about the arrangements this year.”

“Go on, dear.”

“Fact is, we wondered how you’d feel about moving it.”

“Yes?”

“Look, this isn’t easy for me to ask this. I know how much these visits mean to you; especially now that dad’s gone, I mean.”

His mother said nothing.

He blurted it out. “We were wondering if we could move it to the following week, if that’s alright with you?”

There was a short silence before she replied. “You know, I’m not sure whether I’ll be here.”

“Oh! Please mum, there’s no need to talk that way.”

“No, you don’t understand, son. I… I… Oh! Well, I meant to tell you months ago. I’ll probably be in Acapulco.”

“Did you say Acapulco?”

“Yes dear, with Reginald.”

“Reginald?”

“Yes dear. We’ll be away then, but I’ll let you know when we get back from our cruise.”

He was silent.

“You could visit some time and I’ll introduce you, if you can find the time.

He was still silent.

She said, “Bye dear.”

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…