Author: Alexander Fawn

She was on the bus when she found it.

It was lodged down the side of her seat. She pulled it out. At first, it seemed to be some sort of business card. It was much more than that. It was only recently that Jonny Wonderful had been in town on yet another world tour. He was the heartthrob of the decade. She was actually holding his personal card, with his own personal mobile number on it. There were girls out there that would give their eyeteeth for the chance to ring him and speak to him personally! What would it be worth on eBay?

Then, reality kicked in.

She ripped it up and dropped it, when she looked out of the window. Her stop was coming up and she took out her free travel pensioner’s card.

Now, that was valuable!

There can be a seeking of silence,

While ponderings occur.

But… there are other things.

There are images born of the mind.

Such things are capable of breaking the silence,

Such things may start with a falling leaf or rise to a thunderclap.

To hear an abyss in unexplored depths.

To move the building blocks of imagery,

Glorious in their diversity.

No reasoning or calculating is required,

As one tries to determine what fills the silence.

Things beyond any known sound, but may be heard nevertheless.

–

There’s no shame in solitude,

While staying the course,

While taking the only open path,

While silence is on pause,

While conjuring up thin air, dressed in sound,

While loosening the threads of a silence unheard.

–

There is no folly in it.

Life’s entanglements, turning into sound.

Confronted by chaos and its poetic collision,

Both out loud and silently.

A mystic paradox, delicately balanced.

There is a great silent library of unspoken words

…pages that rustle,

…shelves that creek.

Sounds remembered.

Concepts… all there for the pondering.

The 66-year-old man who lived alone at number 44, was feeling lucky when he woke up.

After breakfast, finishing his cuppa, he decided to go into town. He walked the short distance to the bus stop, where he caught the number 22 bus into town. It was such a nice day, so he was happy to get off early and do the 11-minute walk across town, looking in shop windows as he went. He arrived at the newsagency, where he would buy a lottery ticket. There, he found that the yearly ‘Mega Lottery’ number 777, was being displayed on colourful posters as he walked in. He saw that it closes the next day! This might be a sign that he’d made the right choice, he thought.

Although the tickets seemed a bit pricey, he decided to buy three to improve his chances. He paid 33 dollars for them, then he sat in the nearby bus shelter, looking at what he had bought. It was then that he noticed that one of them had the interesting ticket number of 88888.

At this point, although he was surprised at this number, and whether he’d be a winner or not, he was totally unaware of the fact that he’d been dealing with repdigits all day!

He sat at his desk, looking at an accumulation of letters.

They were all from her. He didn’t want them; not any of them. He wanted them all gone, completely gone, and no longer part of his life. He had thought of simply burning them, but he felt this wouldn’t be enough. He needed to come up with something more significant, more dramatic. It needed to be an irrefutable statement. The one thing he knew, was that neither time nor money would play any part in how his act of severance played out. He slowly gathered them all up into a neat pile. This gave him an idea of the volume he had to deal with. Putting an elastic band around the stack, he sat back, thinking about it, formulating a plan.

The following day he went out and purchased a small combination wall safe. It was the type that could be cemented into a wall, after removing a couple of bricks. The following purchase was a little more time-consuming to accomplish. Eventually, he tracked down a hardware store that could sell him a thirty-millimetre diameter, Titanium Tungsten Carbide tipped drill bit.

Next, as the holder of a private pilot licence, he arranged a date when he could rent a small plane for the day. The rest, he could do at home. First, tipping the safe on its side, he drilled a hole through the middle of its side wall. He then removes any swarf left inside. Then, he placed the bundle of letters inside and closed the door. Paying close attention to what the instructions explained., he had it set up that when he span the dial back and forth a few times, it couldn’t be opened, by anyone, including himself. Finally, he was content to simply shred all of the paperwork that indicated that he had ever owned it.

At the relatively small airport, after completing the necessary paperwork and receiving any last-minute information regarding weather conditions he, with his plain, plastic carrier back, climbed into the aircraft. Once in, he removed the safe from the bag and placed it on his lap. He took off, with his destination being a point in the western Pacific Ocean, immediately above the Mariana Trench, it being the deepest oceanic trench to be found on the planet.

As the plane flew low, following the shape of the channel, he opened the cockpits side window and hefted it out. Banking the plane, he watched the tiny splash. Then, smiling and nodding, he turned for home.

The latest pop idol just happened to have a facial tick.

Although he had suffered the embarrassment of it for most of his adult life, the fact that his mouth twitches, even when he’s singing, has only served to increase his popularity. In fact, this strange affliction has gradually encouraged his fans to emulate the condition more and more. It was around the time of his releasing his third album that the craze went viral, with his followers showing how well they could copy the singer through video clips being posted on social media. Naturally, not everybody was happy with this. When it was realised that many of those who had perfected the facial movements had themselves been stuck with them, a completely different focus came into play.

At first, it was the uproar coming from those in the medical profession that hit the newspapers. Then, lawyers became involved. Talk of a class action being brought about, mainly from the parents of children affected, loomed large in the press.

The singer in question, who had never really enjoyed the whole pop star thing, seemed to drop out of sight, with no new songs being released.

Some say he did it to avoid the potential legal action, others kept the rumour going that his twitch had disappeared and he was unable, unlike so many of his faithful fans, to properly copy his previous malady.

Not many were privy to the truth of it, knowing that with help from the criminal fraternity, he had undergone minor facial surgery, secured a fake passport with a different name, had quickly left the country and was now happily serving drinks behind the bar of a night club in Puerto Rico’s red-light district.

According to his list, there were two in the building that had to go.

The old woman in apartment fifteen and the young man down at number three. They were both due to pop off during the same evening. The nice old lady on the third floor didn’t go as planned. The Reaper had always been a bit of a sucker when it came to cards. He made his way down. He found the man in bed. He was lying on his back with his hand resting on his heart. He was obviously trying to get to sleep. Seeing the shadowy figure approach, he switched his bedside light on. He was a bright young man and wasn’t at all fazed by the sudden appearance of the visitor.

“Oh! You’ve come for me, I suppose,” he said. “I can’t imagine why. I’m too young for you to be interested in the likes of me.”

“Sorry, but you’re on the list.”

“List?”

“Yes. Two tonight, in the same building; doesn’t often happen that way.” There was a pause. “Technically, one, I should say.”

“Technically?”

“Yes. Well, the first…”

“Let me guess.” He interrupted. “You’ve come from apartment fifteen, haven’t you?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, but…

Again, the young man jumped in. “… and you played a hand of Gin rummy, didn’t you?”

After a moment of awkward silence. “Yes, but…”

“You’ve been conned, mate!”

“Conned?”

“Yep. She cheats. I should know. I played with her a number of times before realising the cards were marked.”

“Marked?”

“Absolutely! Like I said, you’ve been conned.”

Before drifting of to sleep, the young man heard, “Sleep well.”

Moments later, out in the hallway, the figure ran a bony thumb along the blade, before floating back up to number fifteen.

The night his fairy godmother appeared and granted him a single wish, he was cautious.

As ten-year-old boys went, he was pretty smart. At least, he was shrewd enough to say that he’d needed time to think about it. So, after a short session of amicable argy-bargy, he was given twenty-four hours. She would return to hear his request, in his room, the following evening. With that, she twinkled out the way she had come. Sitting dazed on the edge of his bed, he began to think. It had to be something really worthwhile and not something that would peter out after a while. Therefore, something of great value and permanent. He pulled the box out from under his bed. His parents had bought him a laptop the previous Christmas, with a number of games to go with it. He had quickly tired of the games, and despite it having internet connection, he put it away in favour of his preferred books.

That night, his machine had run hot into the early hours. He had been carrying out his research with such fervour and intensity for so long, that he was not aware of the time, until he heard the soft voices and movement of his parents turning in for the night. It was nearly one in the morning, but he had more to do.

He had taken that natural interruption to summarize what he had found. Working his way through dozens of websites, he had come full circle back to the idea it needed to be both worthwhile and permanent. The ‘worthwhile’ aspect had been relatively simple. He wished himself wellbeing; he was fully decided on that. He would continue with his quest to find a way of ensuring longevity.

He had imagined that it would need to be some sort of machine. Something that only he had access to, using some method of personal identification, much like an ATM; a withdrawal system. Unlike that machine, it had to be smaller, much smaller. In fact, the size of a mobile phone would be ideal.

That morning, he had finally slept for not much more than an hour before his mother had come in to wake him. Feigning sick, he had spent the day in bed, with cold tablets and hot drinks. It was during these hours that the final details of his wish were made crystal clear in his mind.

That evening, she appeared again. He proceeded to describe in great detail what he had decided. He explained that the small device had to have a permanent battery that didn’t need recharging. He said, it had to be opened by his thumbprint alone, pointing out that this wouldn’t change, unlike facial recognition, with the passing of time. He said it needed to emit a close-vicinity glow of wellness that would last for at least seven days, that he could use on a weekly basis.

After dwelling on all this for a while and showing no kind of emotional response, she waved her wand and disappeared in a shower of sparks. That is how and when, on that special evening, he was left with what looked like a cell phone on his bedside table.

During those early years, it had been kept in a small, lockable savings tin in his bedroom cupboard. As the years went on, and before he married and started a family, the device was placed in a similarly protected strong-box in a lockable drawer of his desk.

All that was a long time ago, well over sixty years. Back then he had decided and known that what he was granted would remain a closely kept secret between him and his fairy godmother.

Now, in the final years of his life, having derived so much constant benefit from what he was given, he wondered what its fate should be?

Repeating the sentiment that had started the whole thing, he decided that he needed time to think about it…

Had he not stopped in that exact spot, it would never have happened.

On the day of the incident, he had been on one of his many forest walks. Over the years, these sojourns, took him away from his busy life as the owner of several new-car sales yards, to places of peace and tranquillity. He had visited many such densely wooded places in countries around the world, always returning to his office completely refreshed and invigorated. On this occasion, wandering deeply into a large forest far from his home country, he had settled down for a break. His knapsack always contained a bottle of water, a container of peanuts, another with small cubes of cheese, a chocolate bar and a compass, as an absolute minimum. He sat on an open, leafy patch of dead leaves, eating, drinking and checking his compass when he felt something beneath the heel of his boot. It seemed to be something flat and solid. Brushing the leaves away and scratching deeper with his fingertips, he unearthed a stone plaque. It was a round, flat rock that had strange markings etched into it.

To discover a thing of this sort in such an isolated place was strange enough, but to find it engraved in that manner was even more perplexing. The characters that looked like letters, seven in all, were crudely formed with straight lines, with none of them repeated. There seemed to be a break between the first four and the following three.

After spending several minutes, he was sure he had correctly interpreted the two sets of markings. It made no sense whatsoever that the words were ‘blue car’. Naturally, the fact that he made his living from the world of selling automobiles didn’t escape his attention. He stood for a while trying to take it all in. He would never be able to explain what had motivated him to step on to it at that moment. Nevertheless, that’s what he did.

With an instant flash of light, blinding sunlight, the forest was gone…

He was now standing in a large graveyard. It was a bright day with the sound of traffic nearby. Shaken badly by the experience, he made his way along the outer fencing until he found his way out.

He was outside the gated entrance to the cemetery, reading its name when the vehicle mounted the pavement and ran him down.

It was not at all surprising that the car that caused the fatality was blue.

It seems to be the case that the sudden impact of it had caused him to fall out of bed.

He knew he had a problem with spiders.

For a number of weeks, it had been getting worse. Every evening, when he got home, he’d find them. There were lots of them! They seemed to infest every room in his small apartment. It was as though he had been singled out to receive a plague of them. He couldn’t help feeling it was some kind of vendetta. Sure, he’d stamped on the odd one, who didn’t! Maybe he’d squished a particular one, a special one. One that held some sort of superior status. One that was held in high esteem by the others. He couldn’t help smiling at himself. The idea was pretty fanciful. Gettig real, he would get a pest-controller in and have the whole place fumigated.

He made the call the following morning. The exterminator said he could call in at around lunchtime to have a look. It was agreed, and the owner was there when he arrived.

After a careful examination around the flat, he said, “You described it as a plague when you rang, I don’t think you’re far wrong! Anyway, I’m not carrying the chemical I need for this insect in the van. I can only use a spray to have them temporarily run for cover, until I come back, if you like?”

“OK. Let’s do that. At least I won’t have to see them everywhere.”

“I can do that quite quickly. Right now, if you like?”

“Sounds good.”

The pest man looked around and nodded. “I’ll just get what I need from my van, and then I’ll come back tomorrow to give the place the full treatment.”

This was done, so when the flat owner returned home that evening, he noticed that there were far less spiders around.

He watched a couple of television shows until quite late, while lying on his couch, and fell fast asleep. This was something that he was inclined to do from time to time. He would find himself comfortable enough, that he felt no need to get up and go to bed.

When he woke up to the sound of his alarm going off in the other room, he found that he couldn’t move!

He seemed to be tightly wrapped up in something. As far as he could make out, it was some kind of sticky silk thread. Masses of the stuff was tightly bound around the entire length of his body.

Fanciful, be damned, he thought.

Her husband walked out on her.

That was several months ago, with no sign of him since. He was a brute and she was pleased that he was gone and out of her life. That was how things stood up until last week, that is, when he showed up. He just came in and made himself at home, as though he had never left. He settled in very quickly and made no reference as to where he had been. At first, she found it all rather disturbing. However, she had to ask… Who was he? Is he someone local? What did he witness? Is he just somebody who somehow sees the opportunity to move into a better life?

Was that the simple truth of it; was he just an opportunist? She had to admit; he was very nice. He is certainly not my husband, she thought. He was in the back garden with his decomposing body helping her petunias to grow.

Anyway, she thought about it, he certainly plays the part well. He does all the washing up and brings her a cup of tea in bed every morning.

She decided to keep quiet.