Author: Alexander Fawn

The two ladies are sitting alone in the small room.

The room has three sofas, an armchair and coffee table with magazines. The two women are apparently sisters. One is reading a magazine, while the other is playing with her mobile phone. They are both intermittently discussing Harry, who could be their brother. He could also be either missing, dead or non-existent, and is often the subject of their conversations.

Magazine – “I’m worried about Harry.”

Phone – “No need.”

Magazine – “That’s easy for you to say. I think he’s in trouble.”

Phone – “Trouble? What sort of trouble?”

Magazine – “Well, I’m not sure, but we haven’t heard from him for ages.”

Phone – “Of course we haven’t. Don’t expect to either.”

Magazine – “What makes you say that?”

Phone – “He could be dead.”

Magazine – “Oh! What a dreadful thing to say about your own brother.”

Phone – “He’s not my brother. Don’t be silly. I don’t know where you get such ideas. Are you still taking your pills?”

Magazine – “Pills? What pills? I don’t take pills. You really worry me sometimes. ”

Phone – “Anyway, this cousin, or whatever he is, I think he was very ill at one point. He may be dead, you know. Didn’t he get into trouble with the police?”

Magazine – “Police? No. Not Harry. He was very religious; always helping out at the local church, he was. Oh! No. Very devout.”

Phone – “Devout? What are you talking about? He went to prison for something or other. It was in all the papers. Murder, I think. Not sure; but it was pretty dreadful.”

Magazine – “Whatever are you talking about? Harry would never get mixed up with anything like that!”

Phone – “Well, it’s all rather academic, if he’s dead.”

Magazine – “He’s not dead!”

Phone – “I didn’t say he was. I said he might be.”

Magazine – “Prison… I don’t know how you could dream something like that up, I really don’t. Every Sunday morning he was in there helping the vicar, arranging flowers and…”

Phone – “Flowers! That was it! He was robbing a florist shop. I remember it now. The owner wouldn’t hand over the takings, so Harry shot him. Hell of a stink there was, because of him being a regular churchgoer.”

Magazine – “There you are then. I said Harry was religious!”

Phone – “No not Harry, the man he shot! Honestly, you do…”

Magazine – “Don’t you dare say any more nasty things about Harry. I’m worried about him.”

There was a loud clapping as Matron came in singing, “Medication time, ladies!”

 

 

The dead man’s wife sat in the interview room sobbing softly.

It seemed to her that so little time had passed since the body of her husband was discovered in the garden shed. In fact, it was mid-afternoon, two days later. The forensic people had finished up and a lot more was now known about what had happened. She sat fiddling with the buttons on her coat with trembling fingers.

The detective shuffled things around in front of him, looking decidedly nervous himself. He looked up and forced a smile. “You can relax. I just need to ask you a few questions. We are trying to get a clearer picture of what happened.”

He consulted his notes.

“Can you tell me where you were between the time of seven-thirty and nine on the evening in question?” He looked down at his paperwork again. “Last Tuesday evening, I mean.”

Suddenly her eyes went wild. “What… what do you mean? Where was I? Am I being treated like a suspect? Surely you can’t think that I could possibly have anything to do with my husband’s death? That’s ridiculous!” She went back to sobbing.

The detective suddenly jumped up, knocking his chair over.

“That’s it!” he shouted. “That really is it. I just can’t take it anymore!”

The sniffling stopped, as the woman shrunk back in horror. She was looking nervously around the room as though looking for something or someone who could explain what was going on.

The detective stood with his entire body shaking. His cheeks had turned a dark purple and his watery eyes were bulging.

“I’m just not doing this anymore. Oh! Big deal. Getting promoted to detective… out of uniform… more money. They can keep it. It’s not worth it.” He began to cry.

The woman now sat very still.

Finally, he glowered down at her. “Have you any idea how often I’ve heard that? No. Don’t answer, of course you haven’t. I try to ask the question as nicely as I can, but… but I always get this… ‘Oh! Officer; you can’t possibly think…,’ he said this in a squeaky little voice. “Well, I’m sick of it!” He shook his head in disgust. “Of course I’m asking where you were and what you were doing at the time. Why wouldn’t anyone ask that if they were trying to solve a crime?”

The woman stirred.

“OK I’ll tell you,” she said in a whisper.

“No! I don’t want to know, I’ve had enough. That’s it. I’ve had it!”

By this time the commotion had raised a response and a constable entered the room.

“Everything all right gov?”

“No, it isn’t,” he said. “I’m quitting, or going back on the beat, or… I don’t know what I‘m going to do.” He took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. “Whatever it is,” he went on, “it won’t be this!” he said, picking the chair up.

He went home, took a long shower, left a note for his wife asking not to be disturbed and went to bed. They could talk about it tomorrow.

Meanwhile, he’d sleep on it.

Young Johnny from number twelve believed in magic, while Jake from number fifteen didn’t.

Since they had both reached ‘the age of reason’, according to common law, it was reasonable to assume that they could make up their own minds about what to believe. For a number of uneventful years they had managed to play together quite happily despite this major difference of opinion.

Young Jake had obviously never seen the several centuries of ancient mysticism that twinkled in his friend’s eye. Moreover, little did he know that the event that was about to take place, on that otherwise very ordinary day in Johnny’s back yard, would stay with him for the rest of his life.

It can only be a matter of conjecture as to what really brought the heated argument about.

For Jake it was probably the endless talk of spells and enchantments, or the constant descriptions of potions, elixirs and brews; maybe it was the endless prattling about incantations and hexes. Certainly, Johnny’s mumblings about primordial cosmic wonders had become more frequent.

Maybe, he was simply tired of all the hocus-pocus.

For Johnny, it was most likely the taunting, and the constant undertone of ridicule that seemed to be increasing year by year as they each grew older. It was probably an accumulation of all this that brought it all to a head, that summer morning in Johnny’s back yard.

It happened that on this particular summer day the boys sat on the old bench seat, shaded by the large Maple tree in Johnny’s back yard. The fierceness of the midday sun cast sharp shadows down from the tree’s branches, with their intricate patterns decorating the flagstones.

The wrangling reached fever pitch.

Suddenly, in what can only be described as a fit of pique, Johnny stood up and approached the shadow of a large Maple leaf.

Without looking back at his friend, he stooped and picked it up.

He folded it neatly, put it in his pocket, and went indoors.

Fairies dancing in a glen,

Only gathering now and then.

–

In the grass they form a ring.

The weeny creatures dance and sing.

–

Joyous sounds beneath night’s cloak,

Rarely heard by passing folk.

–

Secretly, beneath moon and trees,

A spectacle no mortal sees.

–

Softly their mystic music starts,

Matching the beats of their tiny hearts.

–

In a moving circle they parade,

With twinkling garb from petals made.

Toadstools dotted here and there.

Nature’s bounty they each share.

–

Nigh invisible in the night,

Only bathed in dim starlight.

–

Through summer, autumn, winter, spring,

This ritual, an age old thing.

–

Drawing from some ancient power,

A joyful meeting at this special hour.

–

Up until the morning sun,

When mortal life is slow begun.

–

Fairies dancing in a glen,

They only gather now and then.

She needed to spend time with a friend.

Her life was running at a low ebb. It was just one of those times when so many negative events came one on top of the other. She hated her new boss. She was so domineering; telling her how to do the job she had been doing perfectly well for almost three years. Then there was the issue of her worthless boyfriend cheating on her, and to make matters worse she was getting behind with the rent.

The final straw came a couple of days ago when she could no longer stop off at her favourite café.

The new spotty-faced barista was such a jerk, she just couldn’t take his super macho arrogance any more. He would leer at her and make remarks that made her feel really uncomfortable. ‘Spotty’ thought he was being clever but he wasn’t.

He lost a customer.

Right now she was on her way to catch up with her friend to pour out all her troubles in a different coffee bar in town. Her friend had suggested it. It sounded like a good alternative. It was an extra couple of blocks away but it would no doubt be fine.

As she entered she could see her friend laughing happily across the table at someone who had their back to her.

Laughter was good. She really needed some laughter in her life at this point.

She was approaching the pair when she stopped suddenly, turned around and left without saying a word.

As she made her way home she couldn’t help wondering what she had done to cause the Almighty to take such a dislike to her.

How could He allow the man with her friend to be ‘Spotty’!

 

The two men sat on the wall eating sandwiches from their lunch containers.

That morning their respective wives had handed them these before they left for work. Although they each worked in different buildings they would occasionally meet up and keep each other company while they watched the passers-by.

The town square was busy with locals, out shopping or taking their own lunch breaks. They had been chatting idly for several minutes when one of them, the slightly older, stopped talking and stared across the square with glassy eyes.

The other prompted. “You OK?”

“Oh! Yes. Sorry. It just suddenly came back to me.” He was still gazing at something.

“What are you looking at?”

“No… nothing really. It was something…”

“Go on.”

“On that step over there. On the opposite side of the square. That’s where I saw her.”

The other nodded.

“She was a lot older than me of course, but she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She sat right there, reading a magazine. I guess you could say I was smitten.”

He chuckled softly.

“I had this compelling urge to go up to her and introduce myself or at least pretend I was lost or just needing directions to somewhere. I don’t know; anything I suppose.” He shook his head. “I didn’t, of course.”

He took a deep breath. “Anyway, when I came back a few minutes later, she was gone.” He shrugged. “The next day I made sure I was in the same place at the same time. I waited an age but she didn’t appear. I must have done that for days, no weeks! Just waiting for the chance to see her again.”

He fell silent, staring at the ground.

After a while, the other said, “And did you?”

He shook his head. “No. I never did.” A look of anguish came into his eyes.

The colleague said, “But why the sadness?”

The other touched his fingertips, counting. “She’d be going on for eighty now.”

Things had been quiet of late. He was a Technical Writer and on his way to catch up with an agency. It was one that often had suitable contract work on their books. There was nothing definite in the wind at the moment but he considered it did no harm to keep himself under their noses. So, this was nothing more than a catch up and a cup of coffee. If nothing else, it got him out of the house. He’d parked his car and was about to catch a bus that would take him from one end of the city to the other.

He had just found a window seat and was settling in when a man in a suit carrying a brief case jumped aboard as the bus pulled out. He stumbled through and flopped down, breathing heavily, next to the contractor. The contractor gave a congratulatory smile saying “Close call!” The suit smiled. “It was… I hate running for buses.” He took out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. This brief interchange seemed to be a natural prompt and they continued to chat casually as the bus moved along the city’s busy main road. After a while the suit asked his fellow traveller what he did for a living.

The contractor inwardly cringed. He hated being asked that. He would tell people and they would say “Technical Writer? What’s that then? What exactly do you do? Is it like working for a newspaper? How do you get paid? Who do you report to? How do you become a Technical Writer?” The questions would just go on and on. He was sick of it. He’d just finished a contract, preparing documentation for a new water management scheme for an iron ore mine. He’d learned a lot about hydrology by working alongside an expert in the field. Very casually he said “I’m a Hydrologist; most of my work involves mine site expansions.” The other nodded. That seemed to satisfy him. The contractor smiled. How easy was that? There was something both mischievous and exciting about side-stepping all those inevitable questions. He was pleased with the thrill it gave him. They chatted on for a while.

Suddenly, the suit’s stop came up and he bounced out of his seat, hugging his case. “I didn’t ask” said the contractor, “what line are you in?”

“Oh! I’m an Account Manager.” he said, as he moved towards the door. “Spend most of my time trying to track down available Technical Writers. Good chatting. Bye.”

And he was gone.

He came home from work to find a mysterious parcel waiting for him.

It was a strange looking package. He really didn’t think the package was meant for him. The printing on the outside of the parcel was in a foreign language. He knew he hadn’t ordered anything like this, but everything on the label was right; name, house number and address. He thought about it for a while. If he wanted to send it back he couldn’t, there was no return address that he could see. It had no stamps to give him a clue about where it came from. If he took it into the Post Office they’d probably have the same problem and they wouldn’t think too kindly of him for giving it to them. He put it to one side while he thought about it some more.

Later that evening, he sat with it on his lap. He decided to open it to see what it was; naturally he was curious. There’d be no harm in opening it; after all, whatever it was, once opened he would have to dump it; he had no choice. He shook it but heard nothing. When he opened it up he was amazed to find it was a cardboard box containing a single T-Light. The package could easily have held a dozen, or even more. One small, black candle was all there was, packed in a mass of scrunched tissue, also black. It was just the regular size, which didn’t offer any explanation about why it had been packed in such a manner.

As far as he could tell, it was just a small black candle set in a pot of black glass with a black lid. He turned it over and found a faintly printed label underneath. The writing was too small to read and only one word was legible. It said ‘Diablo’. It meant nothing to him, although it sounded as if it could be foreign. He lifted the lid and sniffed at the wax but couldn’t detect any fragrance. It was a real puzzle to him how this strange thing had ended up in his dining room. He went to the kitchen and brought back a box of matches. He placed the T-Light on the table and lit it. Instantly, there was a pungent odour of sulphur. He imagined it was the match.

Minutes later, he was about to sit down with his paper when he heard a soft hissing noise. It seemed to be coming from the candle. He went back to it and found that as well as the sound a heavy smoke was drifting up from the flame but stopping half way to the ceiling. It was gradually forming a large, perfectly shaped ball of dark grey smoke. The sight of this had him trembling and at first he seemed powerless to move. He didn’t know what he was looking at but whatever it was, it couldn’t be good. He was about to move forward to snuff it out, when he was frozen by the image taking shape. Two large eyes were now peering out into the room. It seemed to be looking around before saying “You summoned my Master?”

He stood perfectly still while rolling his newspaper up behind his back. With one swift movement, and doing his best not to look into the eyes, he brought it down onto the candle hard with a great thump. A ghastly scream filled the room and the billow of smoke quickly faded away to nothing. He snapped on the lid.

He needed to sit quietly for a while. He made himself a cup of tea and did just that. The episode had left him badly shaken. He sat taking it all in for a long time. What in the world would you do with something that summons up the devil?

In his head, he started running through a variety of ways to get rid of the horrible thing. It could be weighed with a brick and dropped in a river. It could just be put in the rubbish bin. Or… an evil grin came over his face along with some devious thoughts. He could just sent it on! With this new notion, he now sat thinking of new possibilities. There was his mother-in-law for instance. But, no. Not his ex-wife’s mother. She wasn’t such a bad sort really; certainly a lot nicer than her daughter. What about the boss? No. It’s never been anything personal with him, he just gets paid to be nasty.

Of course, there’s the old guy from up the street who never returned his shovel. Over a year it’s been. Real nasty piece of work he is. Asked for it back three times. Last time he said he couldn’t remember borrowing it! He’s a mean old codger who lives on his own. Knowing him, this could be right up his street! A plan began to form in his mind. Doing it by hand could be risky. He could go to a post office in a nearby town where he wouldn’t be recognised. He could have it weighed, have the stamps put on it and simply walk away. He got to work. Everything got carefully wrapped back up and a new address label was glued on. Yes, he would do it tomorrow.

One thing’s for sure, he wouldn’t be asking for his shovel back!

With the tireless ticking of a clock,

The steady tocking of its heart.

No warping gear allows its falter.

Each moving cog plays its part.

–

An hour glass with its moving grains,

Particles sliding in a queue.

Sparkling specks are the sands of time,

A flowing cascade falling through.

Can time flow over or run short?

Is it moving fast or slow?

Will it respond to external needs?

Only an hour glass or clock would know.

–

Time is revered, time is neutral.

It isn’t long; it isn’t short.

Time is universally measured.

Time is all and time is naught.

–

Time is the start and the finish.

Time is growth and degeneration.

Time is birth and decay.

Time is progress and stagnation.

–

Retaining planets and the cosmos,

Pacing movements of machines.

Not to be manipulated.

Some may try, by any means.

–

Last time, next time any old time,

But no U-turns can be made.

Making time or spending time,

No bargaining or trade.

–

Time moves on but memories stay

Each must value their own time well.

Can we ever be free from the constraints of it?

Only time will tell.

He stood at the back door admiring the myriad of colours distributed around his garden.

He was an expert when it came to flowers. He looked at them now, some in ceramic pots sheltering under cover, but most set in flower beds. He had a free morning and could spend hours doing what he loved most. He changed into old clothes, put on gloves and took a spade from the shed. He chose his spot and started digging. After a few minutes, he was surprised at his shortness of breath. He then became aware of a cold sweat, followed by an uncomfortable pressure…

He slowly struggled to his feet, still feeling light-headed. He looked around and found that an elderly gentleman sat watching him. When he realised that it could be none other than God that was waving him forward, he cried “My garden! Oh! My poor garden!”

God smiled softly and said “Welcome my child. Tell me what is in your heart.”

“It’s my garden!” He blurted.

God pointed to another seat. “Sit and tell me more.”

The man sat silent for a while, composing himself. He began. “My lovely garden, you see? It will die in the heat we’ve been having. All my flowers, they will all die.” He took a breath. “I live on my own now you understand, and it’s an isolated area. My daughter doesn’t get back for two weeks. Everything will die!”

God smiled again. God saw the genuine fear in the man’s eyes.

“In that case,” said God, “I’ll have it rain every three days for the next fortnight. How would that be?”

A great sense of relief washed over the man, his whole posture relaxed, and he visibly brightened. Then he bowed his head and in a quiet voice said “Thank you.”

God lifted his hand and an Archangel appeared, took him gently by the hand, and led him away.