Author: Alexander Fawn

When she needed it, it was always there, it went with her everywhere.

Mum and Dad, on their wedding day, looking so happy… Sometimes, it was enough to slip her hand in her pocket and feel its corners; feel the flatness of it in its plastic jacket. The cover that fits it so well; that protects it, keeps it safe. Whenever she needed it, it was there. She could take it out and look at it; talk to it sometimes. She could share her thoughts and dreams. She would tell it about the bad times and the good. More recently, she could tell it about how her life was getting brighter. She had been homeless most of her life, and it was only recently that things began to pick up.

Of late, she kept the family photo in her purse; the owning of a purse being an indication of how her life was truly moving on. She had found a job that she could do and do well. She worked in the kitchen of a café, preparing all sorts of hot food to order. She seemed to have a natural talent for it. She was now renting in a house with three other girls, one of them waitressing in the same place.

It was only she who knew that the photo was the most precious thing that she possessed. It was sad to think that she was shuffled around from one institution to another with such frequency in her very first years of life. It was sad to think that she has been homeless for such a long time. It was sadder still, when you consider that she found the photo, along with some scraps of paper, stuck beneath the wheel of a rubbish skip, in an alley where she slept one night.

Nevertheless, only she knows the value she places on it.

It is enough that she knows.

All things considered, it turned out to be a good year for the kid living at the end of the street.

The truth of it was, there was always plenty of drink in the house. His parents used to buy whatever booze their heart’s desired, very cheap, on a regular basis, from the woman at number 12.

His father was a doorman and bouncer in a night club and occasional burglar, it was just a spot of house-breaking whenever the opportunity presented itself.

His mother was a prostitute, drug dealer and backstreet abortionist, when required.

His sixteen year old sister was a prostitute and occasional mud wrestler.

His father’s criminal associates frequently visited the house, sometimes to plan jobs, other times simply to get drunk, shout and swear a lot.

His father was eventually caught having an affair with the woman at number 12.

Soon after this, his sister found religion.

His parents continued to have lots of arguments, which on occasions, became violent and physical.

Then, quite by accident, the kid discovered that the estranged and long-gone husband of the lady at number 12 was his real father.

It was around this time that his sister got a really good job as a receptionist in a global resources company.

His mother died from an overdose of drugs.

His dad won some money at a dogfight.

His sister married a fifty-something multi-millionaire oil baron and moved into his huge mansion out on the edge of town.

His step-dad married the daughter of the woman from number 12.

The woman from number 12 committed suicide.

His sister’s husband died of pulmonary tuberculosis, and his step-dad got shot in a police raid at the night club.

So… he moved in with his sister.

The man watched the customer at the ATM.

As the customer came away folding a couple of twenties, the man approached. “Excuse me,” he said, with a pained expression, “I’m a bit desperate and I’m looking for someone to help me out.”

The customer looked him over and said, “You don’t look as though you need a handout.”

“No,” replied the man, “I’m not looking for one, a lack of money is certainly not my problem.”

The other shrugged. “OK then, how can I help?”

The man looked around. “Is there a coffee bar or something where we can sit and talk?”

“There’s one just around the corner,” he looked at his watch, “I don’t have a lot of time.”

The other smiled. ”This won’t take long.”

Sitting with cups of coffee the man had paid for, he produced a small plastic wallet and handed it over.

The other opened it and peered inside. “Nothing in here,” he said.

The man smiled, “Oh! but there is!”

“What?”

“Bitcoins. Two, in fact,” the man replied.

“Bitcoins,” the other echoed. “I’ve heard of them but don’t know what they are.”

“OK. It’s simple really,” the other went on, “It’s virtual money. Bitcoin is an encrypted digital currency that operates outside of the banking system. The truth is, my uncle, who owns the company I work for, is dead against them. He says it’s a scam and when the bubble bursts we’ll all lose our money. All nonsense, of course, but he’s threatened to fire me unless I divest myself of my share of them. So, here we are.”

“Wow! But why me?”

“I saw you out there at the machine and you seemed to be an upright sort of person. My deadline is running out. I need to sell them to a stranger. I don’t want anyone that I know to get wind if it. Apart from the embarrassment, each of them will be annoyed that I didn’t approach any of them with this offer.” He shook his head. “I think it’s a wonderful way of making money, but until he changes his mind, my uncle won’t keep me on if I don’t do this. He does pay me very well and I would stand to lose a great deal more if I don’t get rid of them.”

“There’s only a couple in there, but together they’re currently worth over ten thousand. You can check the updated price on the Internet. I want to get rid of them quickly. If you can come up with say, five hundred, they’re yours. My problem will be solved.”

“Thank you. You can count me in.”

“OK. Just one thing”. He took out a small piece of paper. “I’ve made up this simple form. A receipt if you like; it states that this transaction has been made. We both need to sign and date it. This way I can show my uncle proof that I no longer own them.”

They both signed.

The customer stood up “I’ll get the money,” he said.

The other leant across and took the wallet back. “I hope you don’t mind if I hang on to it for now, we are strangers after all.”

“Of, course not. I’ll be right back.”

On his return he was given the wallet again. He opened it up and looked inside. Seemingly satisfied, he handed over the cash.

The man picked up the signed form and put it in his pocket, careful to place it in a pocket separate from the wad of blank forms.

They both stood, and after a handshake, they went their separate ways.

Without doubt, they were destined to never meet again.

 Nature’s voice blows with a chilling breeze.

It blows with a truth that’s cold.

Through so many stands of leafless trees.

Each year the story’s retold.

–

A dull reflection in the sky.

Carpets of leaves showing black.

While possible storms are always a given,

As warmer weather hangs back.

–

Daylight subdued by winter’s cloak

Beneath a sky that’s grey.

Nature paints on a cold-hearted canvas,

In the pale shadow of day.

–

Birds perch on leafless trees

With their claws fully clasped.

Bare branches dance their miserable rhythm

While feathers ripple against winter’s blast.

Under dark, foreboding clouds we go,

Breathing the crispness of frosty air.

Often unwilling, with blood ever chilling;

Donning winter wear.

–

Faces whipped with a wind that stings,

With a liquid coldness in eyes and nose.

A creeping numbing of the bones.

Cheeks with a growing flush that shows.

–

It’s a cold too close for comfort,

When nature’s voice comes on a chilling breeze,

With veins that throb with blood that’s chilled,

And all nature’s progress seems to freeze,

With so many stands of leafless trees.

The lady in the post office was very patient with him.

He stood looking around for an example of what he wanted, but couldn’t find one. This was annoying. After all, he was in a post office. The word hadn’t gone, of course, it had just been temporarily mislaid. Eventually he swallowed his pride and stood pretending to lick a stamp and put it on a letter. This was despite the fact that you didn’t actually lick them anymore.

“Ah!” she said, with a grin, “you want a stamp.”

“That’s it, yes, stamp! Thank you.”

How could he forget the word stamp? He went on into the shopping centre. He wasn’t looking forward to it.

It all went well until he was trying to ask the guy in the fruit shop if he had any pomegranates. He couldn’t see any on display, so he tried to get the message across by pointing at other fruit and wriggling his hand, palm down, to indicate that he wanted something similar. The shop keeper was less patient than the lady in the post office, but was reluctantly willing to rattle off as many fruits as he could think off that weren’t on show. This, of course, was not a good advertising strategy from his point of view.

A small crowd was gathering, interested to hear that the fruiterer could not provide any of the fruits being mentioned. Occasionally, one of the women would offer a suggestion. This went on until an elderly lady said, “Pomegranate?”

 With a smile of relief, he said, “Yes. Thank you, madam.” There was a small ripple of applause while the shop owner shook his head and scurried to the back of the store.

At home, he relayed all this to his wife, who commiserated with him and made him a nice cup of tea.

That evening they sat watching the evening news. One of the topics, one that he felt particularly strongly about, dealt with the recognition of a local church.

Well now, he thought, this was an obvious case of a very strong opposition to the state withdrawing its support from what is, clearly, an established church.

He thought about it.

It was a clear case of antidisestablishmentarianism, and he wanted to say so.

There was nothing really noteworthy about the rock.

Nevertheless, the objet d’art took pride of place on the hall table. It was the first thing seen as anyone entered the house. She placed it on a small, lace doily, to set it off. People often asked about it. She would come up with all manner of stories regarding its history, none of them true. It was just some game she enjoyed playing. Her ex-husband would not have appreciated it. He would certainly have said that her secret, fanciful ideas about it were a complete nonsense. That was the way he was.

Even with their children, now all grown up and moved on, when they were small and adventurous they would often bring things into the house that they declared where precious, only to have him insist on whatever it was being thrown out. It was as though he had no fantasy factor. No willingness to let imagination take over from logic. Something she had always been adept at.

The accident had happened while on holiday; just the two of them. She had wanted to visit the waterfall ever since finding pictures of it on the Internet. It was such a beautiful spot, although a long walk was required to get to it. There were signs erected for tourists, giving directions from the broader tracks that ran through the forest. A warning was posted regarding occasional rock falls and the need to take care. Naturally, he didn’t want to make the effort, despite knowing how much it meant to her. After the usual process of making her feel guilty, he relented.

They made their way slowly along the narrow trail, occasionally finding evidence of a recent subsidence, in the form of scatterings of material across the path. However, it was worth it. The place was even more magnificent than she could possibly have pictured. The fall itself was dramatic enough, but the surrounding greenery produced a scene that would rival any depiction of such a place created by an artist. She felt rapturous at the sight of it and was in the process of providing her own fanciful ideas about it being a place where wood nymphs may well come and go when he had added his own uncalled-for observation. The brunt of it being that she had always been a looney.

The piece of granite had been wrapped in an old tea towel, placed in a biscuit tin and tucked away on a top shelf in the laundry. Finally came the placement of it. It was a painful wait for her. She felt she should hold off for at least three weeks after the funeral before placing the rock in the chosen position of prominence, just inside the front door. When the time came, she didn’t want to clean it up, but she did.

At the very least, she would wash the blood off it.

The abduction was very swift.

One minute he was brushing his teeth at the mirror, with his wife calling out not to be long as she needed the bathroom, the very next, he was laying, strapped to a table. There was movement around him, but he couldn’t see through what seemed to be some sort of gorse fabric, draped across his head.

After a great deal of throat-clearing the questions started. Questions that went on and on. For hours he lay there being bombarded with questions. So many questions. Some of the earlier questions about evolution and natural selection he was willing to have a stab at. He knew enough to know that this guy Darwin had come up with the idea that evolution is brought about through natural selection. He enjoyed learning about that at school. His inquisitors seemed relatively happy with the answers he gave. Finally, the head covering was removed to reveal the grotesque heads and shoulders of the three alien beings.

Unfortunately, his ability to keep his captors happy didn’t last. He simply couldn’t understand the questions being put to him. He really knew nothing of Newton’s laws of motion or Kepler’s laws of planetary motion. As for Archimedes’ buoyancy principle and Hubble’s law of cosmic expansion, well, they meant nothing at all to him. On and on the questions came, about the laws of thermodynamics, the universal law of gravitation and cosmic microwave background radiation. All this went on, until he simply couldn’t take it anymore.

In desperation, he shouted, “If you want to know that, you need to ask a scientist!”

One of the creatures came closer to the table and leaned over him, staring down.

“I’m not a scientist, I’m a roof-tiler.”

The strange head shook from side to side, slowly. It turned to the others.

“You know, a roof-tiler;” he went on, “I work on house roofs, putting tiles on.”

All three heads started shaking.

Back, staring into the mirror, he was standing motionless, holding his toothbrush. He jumped at the voice coming from the bedroom.

“Are you finished?”

With great effort, he called back, as calmly as he was able, “Yes, dear. All done.”

You don’t often find typographical errors in a telephone directory, but it can happen.

He used to jump regularly when he was serving time in the air force, but not anymore.

He no longer jumped in the service of his country. No, he only wrote about it now. Journalism had taken the place of action. It wasn’t the same. He wasn’t sure why he came back here every few years to do it again; why he came back to pay for a jump. Cash down for a regular twelve thousand feet; just one turn of the altimeter, no need for oxygen apparatus. Was this just a way of kindling old memories? He didn’t think so. Was it a way of proving to himself that he was still up to it? No, not that either. Maybe, he just did it to break the monotony of his humdrum existence. That was probably closer to the truth than anything else.

It will never be known how the strap holding the chute-pack came free, but when it did, the whole thing got violently ripped off and tossed away. The incredible force of the wind grew stronger as he plummeted. The indescribable terror that took hold of him held fast for the longest time before changing, softening somehow. The horror of it was moving through some strange and incomprehensible transition, through to something else. Something calming. Along with this sense of growing euphoria came the image.

Blinding at first, then softening to show the full glory of the Archangel Gabriel, the great messenger of God. Gabriel, who traditionally helps journalists, writers, artists and teachers to convey their messages. Gabriel, with spreading arms and colossal wings. Wings, that would sweep together to form a loving embrace. Wings, waiting to break his fall. Into them, he fell. The peace and tranquillity of the moment he left the body, a thing no longer required. Who could have possibly imagined such a peaceful and happy way to go?

A strong smell of disinfectant stung his nostrils. He could hear buzzing and clicking behind his bed.

The damage to the fruit farmer’s netting was extensive. The tree that took the brunt of the fall would have to be replaced. The God-fearing owner of the land, knowing the circumstances, made no claim of any kind.

Despite all this… the man in the bed gave thanks to Gabriel.

The first is the first of twenty six,

And this is easy enough,

But looking for two that appear at noon,

Is when things start to get tough.

–

You may say “Oh! Gee!” when looking for this.

Phonetics play a big part.

While seeking a pair in a vacuum,

Try not to pull them apart.

–

When looking for this,

It’s not so easy to miss,

Just how common can you get?

And what is to come,

Although rather humdrum,

Is the nastiest of them yet.

–

So, when digging so deep

Into what nexus we keep,

It’s hardly worth the fuss.

The statistical measure of the linear relationship

Between a dependent and an independent variable

Can be simply represented thus.

It was a special family outing.

Mum, Dad and daughter all left home early to make sure they would get in. The new bird sanctuary and reserve had only been open a week and was proving to be very popular. Naturally, it was the children who were particularly excited to see all kinds of birds they had never seen before; to see them up so close was a real treat. The reserve had only been open a few minutes when they parked, but a huge crowd was sifting through the front turnstile as they approached. The grounds were extensive, with many large enclosures and even more small cages for the smaller varieties. The family worked its way around following the paths and signposts. They stopped occasionally to read the plaques mounted on the cage fronts.

The girl was especially fond of owls and spent a long time peering through the netting, chatting amiably with them as they sat perched on dead branches, occasionally swooping down to ground level. She wasn’t at all happy with them being caged, but it did mean she could take a closer look at them. One owl came so close to the fence that she found she could pass her tiny hands through two of the openings, hold her disposable camera phone inside the compound, and get a really good close picture.

She was doing this when a visitor bumped her and she dropped the camera. At this point, the owl seemed to take an interest in what had arrived; it started to frantically peck at it. At this point she let out a howl and her father made his way through the crowd to investigate. Most people took a great deal of interest in what had happened and he had to push his way through.

Seeing the problem, they all went looking for a zoo official, while the mother voiced her opinion yet again that her daughter was simply too young to be given a camera. The father agreed that when they got it back he would take charge of it until they got home and he could assess the damage. The keeper was very understanding about it and it was retrieved. The disappointed daughter would have to wait to see whether any of her snaps had come out. Fortunately, the long drive home meant that the sleepy girl went straight to bed.

Later that evening, the father wiped the camera clean of dirt and straw and went in to see what he could find. His young daughter would be delighted that all her pictures were intact, but he felt he should delete the message scratched out on the back. The mother agreed.

It read: Please set me free!