Author: Alexander Fawn

She had always mused a lot.

She would tell her friends that it was one of her strong points. “Arty types are always doing it,” she would say, “it comes with the territory.” She was a young woman, fresh out of University and her art degree went with her everywhere. On this particular day she was browsing through an art gallery in a town she had not visited before. There was a great variety of works on display, from Renaissance to Pop Art. She had stopped in the town to take a break from a long drive, but had spotted the shop in the high street and couldn’t resist going in.

As she walked around it became evident that the shop was quite large. She spent the better part of an hour strolling around, analysing the contents of each frame individually, when a fresh-faced, middle-aged sales lady approached asking, “Can I help you there?”

“No,” she replied, “just looking, but thank you.”

The sales woman moved off, saying, “Not a problem. Just let me know if there’s anything.”

A few more minutes and she was at the back of the shop, with nothing left to look at.

It was there that she noticed a further room that was stacked with more art work, mostly laid flat on deep shelves, with some several framed pictures leaning up against a wall.

She got the sales person’s attention.

“Excuse me, would you mind if I take a look in here?”

The other paused, then said, “Oh! No. That’s fine. Naturally, we don’t have the room to hang them all. If you want to look at anything on the racks, let me know and I’ll take them down for you. Otherwise, there’s a good selection there along the wall.”

“Thank you.”

As she turned to go in, the other added, “I would ask you to be careful, some of them are quite valuable.”

“I will, I promise,” she said and entered the room. 

 She stood for a while, flipping through them one by one, until she came to a Renoir print. This French impressionist happened to be one of her favourite artists. As a painter, he liked to capture some of the leisure activities of Parisian life. The picture here was no exception, being his ‘Dance in the City’; an elegant portrayal of a couple, wrapped in each other’s arms, dancing.

She carefully lifted it out, noticing a label glued to the back, as she did. It read ‘Todd for Claire’. She thought that was sweet. Presumably, Todd was the one giving the picture to his sweetheart. Was he anything like the man in the picture? Was Claire anything like the woman? She stood staring at the picture for at least another half an hour. She became moved and quite emotional, lost in the way this simple print may have touched the personal lives of two people, who may well have been deeply in love at one time, before it ended up in this out of the way storeroom.

The saleswoman was surprised to find her still there when she looked in. “Anything of interest?” she enquired, as she entered.

The woman, almost speechless, turned the picture.

“Oh! That!” The woman looked embarrassed. “Oh! We should have removed that, I’m so sorry.”

“Not at all,” replied the other.” I think it’s awfully touching, don’t you?”

The woman’s face reddened even more. “Well, to be quite honest, Todd, or Mister Roberts…”

“Oh! You actually know who gave this painting?”

The other stood, obviously very uncomfortable for some reason. Finally, she said, “Yes. Well, actually no; not gave but sold.”

“Sold?”

“Yes, that would be Mister Roberts from the Salvation Army. They get some rather fine pieces from time to time. Items that people simply don’t want any more.”

The visitor looked visibly shaken and certainly disappointed, she asked, “And Claire?”

“That’s me. You may not have noticed my name over the shop as you came in.”

Out in the street she stiffened visibly before making her way back to her car.

She preferred her version.

There’s a place inside were poems are born.

It’s just like a room in the head.

It’s full of so many words

And things that people have said,

Or a line of graffiti seen somewhere,

Or a thing that’s simply been read.

–

Some words may dishearten,

Others enthuse.

Try not to clutter,

Simply pick and choose.

Favourites are fine,

But don’t overuse.

There’s no fondness for words that rush at you,

Or wake at an early hour,

Or those that are not in common use,

Or leave a taste that is sour,

Or those that a reader has to look up,

Or the archaic that no longer have power.

–

There’s no liking for words that are hung with icicles,

Or those that burst into flame,

Or those full of pretentiousness,

Either through glamour or fame,

Or words that promise too much,

Or dictate the name of the game.

–

The best loved words

Glide in on a cloud.

They hoot like an owl

But never too loud.

They smell of coffee;

All with humour allowed.

–

Inside this room, is where precious things live.

Outside… can there be anything above

Or more important that life can give

Than the value of poetry, music and love?

She couldn’t remember exactly when it had started.

Of course it had been going on for a number of years, she knew that. But to actually put a date on it or to remember the occasion of the first delivery; no, that she couldn’t do. It was insidious, creeping into her life like a cancer. Every day, the filthy old guy from across the street brings her mail, taken from her mail box and bringing it to her front door. There would be a tapping on the door, he never rang the doorbell. No matter what it was; letters, local paper, flyers, notices, brochures, there was always something, and he would bring it.

At first she tried telling him that despite getting on in years, it was no problem for her to walk the short distance down the front path to collect it herself. It was as though she had never said anything.

The worst part of it was his dirty clothes and the smell he always gave off. The fact that his face was so wrinkled and blotchy didn’t help. In short, he was quite ugly. Although she had no way of knowing how old he was, he must be well into his eighties or nineties. All in all, she would rather he didn’t do it. She had, over the years, thought of a number of ways she could put a stop to it, but none of them seemed to be right after thinking it through. At one point she came to the conclusion that the matter would only be fully resolved if he simply dropped dead.

However, this notion wasn’t enough. She began to imagine things; scenarios. She would play them out in her mind. As time went by, she found that these fantasies actually brought her some small measure of solace.

He might simply clutch at his chest one morning, before the postman made his rounds, have a heart attack and die quite peacefully, right there on his kitchen floor. As he’s not that steady on his feet, he could always fall and break his hip or his leg badly. So bad that he was not able to move; just lay there and die. He might have some heavy object come crashing down on his head and just lay there helpless, slowly bleeding to death. Of course, there was always the chance that he could just choke on a piece of food and die. It was also possible that some faulty wiring or a frayed appliance cord could see him electrocuted.

Considering how unhygienic the old man is, he could so easily eat something that had gone bad. With those teeth of his, he wouldn’t even taste that it was off. Once the agony of it set in he wouldn’t be able to get help and he would die of poisoning. On the other hand, if in fact he owns a bath, he could slip getting in, fall and hit his head. If he tumbled into the bath unconscious he would drown. There again, falling in the kitchen with a large, extremely sharp knife in his hand could be immediately fatal; especially if it was driven straight into his heart. She knows that he smokes. He could have an accident in his bedroom one night. A smouldering cigarette end falling to the floor. His death would be slow and very painful, with him gasping for air, collapsing through a lack of oxygen and eventually dying right there while the flames licked around until the whole house…

She was in one of these reveries when she heard the gate go. A tap-tap at the door; he never uses the bell. He stands there holding letters, grinning with broken, black and yellow teeth.

“Oh!” she says with feigned surprise, “that’s very kind of you.” She says this the way she always says it.

As he closes the gate he gives a little wave.

She smiles, waves back, and closes the door.

They are so often undefined, misunderstood or simply unrecognised for what they are.

These are things that sometimes plague a host; any one of which may be discounted, resulting in the host’s disadvantage or even peril.

It can be a shadow, moving where there is none or the sound of a whisper in an empty room. It can be the sound of rain when there is none. The sudden taste of a fruit when you have eaten none. The cold shiver in a warm bath or the chill that surprises you on a sunny day. The hand that holds yours when no one is there. The feeling of knowing what is going to come next. The pain in a limb that is no longer there. The lump in your throat when you’ve not eaten.

It can be the smell of a rose, although made of paper or seeing auras when others see nothing. It is the alert feeling when there is no visible danger around. Knowing your way around where you haven’t been before, momentarily not recognizing someone you know, or seeing a doppelganger. Denying something that you really know. Feeling an incline when on flat ground, the enjoyment of another’s misfortune or the wish to believe a lie. It can be a voice in the head, a persistent itch, or the secret admiration for a wrongdoer.

It can be the momentary feeling of having no memory of a previous action. The realisation that others had full lives of their own. The frustration when realising how unimportant a current conversation is. Mentally replaying an argument, changing it to result in a victory. A wish to return to a younger self to tell of the future. Distressed that all the world’s books could not be read. It can be like feeling comfortable and likening it to a return to the womb.

It can be the desire to be a child again. The annoyance of only being able to inhabit one place at a time. The strange feeling when suddenly locked in a mutual gaze. Feeling nostalgia for a time never known. The growing desire to care less about life. The sense of repeating some past event. The impatience felt when predicting how long it takes to fully develop a relationship or the insistent sensation of being out of place. The impinging realisation of not living to see what the future will bring. The belief that life no longer makes sense.

All of the above, and a tumult of others, sit waiting to be experienced.

In many cases, simply waiting to be casually dismissed, sent back into the region of the unknown…

The man sat at his open laptop, daydreaming.

There were days like this, when he didn’t do any actual writing. He would call up ideas on his laptop and look them over, maybe make hand-written notes about what he was reading, sometimes typing in a few additional points, and then shelving it all to be considered later. On other occasions he would steam ahead, banging out all sorts of material, some being completed items, others being fleshed out, and then tucked away in folders were such things belong. He sat for a while contemplating his own particular style of what he called scribbling.

Generally, he had found, through his own reading, that brief, succinct and yet comprehensive descriptions of a subject are often hard to find. He estimated that when a reader has neither the time, nor the inclination, to read a book in order to gain an understanding of a topic, the compact version is invaluable. He considers that for the writer, the greatest challenge, after reading the subject, often taking in several reference works, is to reduce all the knowledge down to a concise narrative; short yet complete. For him, it was like this with stories. In other words, to paint a picture with as few words as possible.

In general, he avoided giving his characters names, in the main he regarded these being superfluous to his stories. He considered that giving a name may bring about some kind of personal memory prompt; someone the reader liked or someone they didn’t. He tended to keep adjectives and adverbs to a minimum; likewise with the number of characters, with a preference for just one or two. Metaphors had never held much interest for him. He had always considered them rather trite, despite the fact that most advice was to recognise how wonderful they are.

For him, it had always been about brevity. He had felt a sense of powerful elation on coming across Friedrich Nietzsche’s idea that it was his ambition to say in ten sentences what others say in a whole book. Although it might be considered that a short-short story should contain between one-hundred and one-thousand words, this was not his usual goal. In the main, he had modelled his stories on the basis that they would contain somewhere between three and six hundred words.

On the subject of averages, a standard piece written, using five-hundred words, would only take three minutes to read. It was his overall intention to choose an effective and meaningful title, along with a simple opening line that adequately set the scene. He felt that this needed to be an introductory description that would lead into the heart of the story. He had always strived to keep his poems and stories as short and as simple as possible. He did his best to focus on a key emotion to drive a story. He tried to limit the number of scenes, to one if possible, and he constantly endeavoured to concentrate on some small, yet powerful moment in a character’s life.

Many of his stories are just simple moments, suggestive of life statements, usually occurring between limited players, most often just two. These are brief domestic moments that indicate some instance, either reflecting on or leading up to, the twists and turns of the human condition. In many cases this genre falls just outside of the constraints of science fiction.

Regarding the activity of writing, ideas for new material or updates to existing work, can kick in at any time. He reflected on the fact that he found no need to use overt violence, descriptions of nudity, explicit sexual content, bad language or references to substance abuse to tell his stories.

He likes to think that his stories are simple, although his somewhat shadowy style has occasionally got him into trouble with his readers. Using something of an opaque veil drawn down over events, together with an apparently unrelenting enigmatic style, can unhappily leave a reader puzzled. His attempt to make adjustments in this area had only been partially successful, although he genuinely wants his tales to be enjoyed. This probably comes down to one of those ‘I am what I am’ things.

Over time, it seems that a pattern of genres has emerged. On reflection, crime, drama and mystery along with fantasy and comedy, with a touch of the absurd and the whimsical thrown in, would seem to sum it up. He tried to present a variety of plots and moods. In truth, the reason that these categories come about can only be put down to the fact that he finds them the easiest to write.

As for the future, because he never seems to be short of ideas, he reflects on the fact that his apparently widely-scattered group of blog-readers are likely to continue to stumble into his offerings for some time yet.

He would just keep on scribbling.

It all started the day her Auntie was called in as a last minute babysitter.

She would have to admit that it didn’t happen very often, but when it did, it was dreadful. After all, she was eight going on nine. Old enough to have a mind of her own. Old enough to make decisions for herself. Auntie didn’t see it that way. She was very bossy. It all started the moment her parents left for her father’s company dinner. They wouldn’t be back very late they said. She knew that this meant she’d be spending the entire evening with this nasty woman. With the sound of the car pulling out into the street, it started.

“Now, young Miss.” She often called her that. “I don’t want any nonsense from you. I’d like to spend a nice quiet evening watching my favourite shows on the television. I don’t see why I should miss them, just because I have to be here looking after you.”

The girl broke into tears. Wiping her eyes, she said, “Mummy said I could watch my recorded animal program while they were out.”

“Humph!” came the reply. “You can forget that!”

So, this is how it started. It went on for over an hour before the girl simply couldn’t take it anymore…

It was quite late when her parents returned. They were chatting happily as they came in. They had both been drinking and they kept breaking into fits of giggles. Up in her bedroom their daughter could hear them laughing. They had been home several minutes before climbing the stairs clumsily to check on her.

As they entered, her mother said, “Oh! Where’s your Auntie?”

“Gone,” the girl replied, without looking at her.

The mother was sobered by the news. “You mean she left you all alone?”

“Yep. She’s gone.”

With this, the parents carried out a thorough search of the house. Finding no sign of the woman, they rang her home, only to discover her husband was waiting for her to return. Of course, a police report was made, and within the week a full investigation was started, with newspaper articles alerting the public to the mystery. Both parents were deeply disturbed by the whole affair. They were left with the strange feeling that their daughter was not being entirely honest with them.

Time went on and the missing person report was lost among all the others. A further year saw the parents confronted again with the need to ask a relative to act as a sitter for them.

When informed of this, the daughter said, “No need. I’m totally able to look after myself,’ then, with the strangest of looks, asked, “Do you really want to do that?”

They were both shocked by the way this was said. They talked it over. Would they get a sitter in or not?

They decided they wouldn’t.

Free wind, free sea, free waves, free tides, free verse.

Free verse based on a free view.

A free view framed as it is by

Dune, fir and horizon.

A triangular wedge of blue-grey sea,

Flecked with strips of white;

And deep within those endless depths,

Unseen movement, mysterious and beguiling.

Below the drifts and flows of a turbulent ocean

Other currents flow unseen.

Moving unknowable creatures as they drift.

As they glide through the deepest waters,

Knowing nothing of great swells and crashing waves,

As we know nothing of them.

A calm whispering born in the wind.

Telling birds they may pass.

Ripples hitting the sea;

A bobbing of broken driftwood,

Headed for some distant shore;

Destination unknown.

The sea sings its primordial song,

And any listening soul becomes adrift in it,

Becomes cradled by the sea and what it tells,

What it is and will ever be.

So vast the ocean, so deep, so dark,

With only waves to show the heart of it.

Here, violent waves, smashing cliff and rock;

A thrusting vortex of relentless force.

Others there, breaking silently,

Rolling out a carpet of white bubbling foam.

A gentle stirring of water.

Soothing sounds of soft lapping.

Regardless, each wave being born again.

They never really die.

Both large and small,

They dance with so much power.

It stirs the heart.

The room is small and dimly lit.

She can’t rightly say how long she has been in it; only a couple of days, as far as she could tell. It is not a well-appointed room, although the mattress is surprisingly comfortable. There remains little of interest in the half dozen magazines and old newspapers lying in the corner. She has read them all; some of them twice. The tiny window, with one pane in it, looks out over open fields and a distant stand of trees. She takes comfort in her ability to stare out at the beauty of it. She feels it is, in some way, compensation for her predicament.

She sits on the upturned milk crate with a cushion, thinking about how nice it would be to visit her parents, when she gets out. She has no doubt that she will be set free in due course. She knows this because of the occasional visits she receives and the brief chats that go with them. Albeit that such occurrences give no clue as to the identity of her abductor; all such conversations being carried out with the room’s only door shut fast between them.

Her captor is a woman; a strange, middle-aged, single person, but she would have to say not at all unpleasant, as people go. It transpires that she has been living on her own for several years. She is a writer. Nothing of note, she says. To date her career has seen a few short articles published in a locally produced gardening magazine, but the lady wants to write a book. A crime novel no less. It is for this reason, along with her fastidious desire for authenticity that she carried out the kidnapping in the first place. She needed to know whether such an activity was truly feasible. It was explained in a rather off-hand manner that, when the time came, the detainee would be given the same harmless sleeping potion that she was offered when she had accepted the lift.

On the cold night in question, she had been hitchhiking later in the day than intended. She was on the first of a two week walking holiday. She was tired of the regular work breaks she took and wanted something different. By the time the friendly vehicle came along it was completely dark. There was an icy wind blowing and she was still some way from the village she was heading for. A place where she had booked a bed for the night.

As the driver of the vehicle pulled up she could just make out several boxes piled up on the front seat. She could see virtually nothing of the lady driver, who was apologetic about only offering her the back seat. She said she was heading for the village herself. The hitchhiker accepted gladly, and was most grateful when the driver handed back a thermos of hot coffee.

As for how long she remained unconscious, how long the drive had taken or how far they travelled on the night, she had no idea. Although, when she eventually woke it was broad daylight outside. Now, she felt quite sure, it was only a question of time. Every time the little dog-flap at the bottom of the door was unbolted to slide in a tray of food and drink, as meagre as it was, the occupier of the cell actually hoped the drink would herald her escape. With that in mind, she never hesitated in quaffing it down quickly. This would be followed by a period of sitting on the crate, waiting.

She does this now and smiles as a warm sleepiness moves over her.

It is night-time again when she wakes to find herself sitting, propped up on the back wall of the public house she was originally heading for.

She got up, went inside, apologised for showing up late and got a bed for the night. In her room, she didn’t have to think for very long before coming to the decision that she’d keep the events of the last few days to herself. After all, she had wanted something different and that’s what she got.

However, she couldn’t help wondering whether there were any murders in the ladies book!

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.