Author: Alexander Fawn

Politically speaking, the man in question seemed to come out of nowhere.

So little was known about him. Of course, people knew he was around, with some even knowing his name. It was how he had sky-rocketed up through the political ranks and into the spotlight that remained a general mystery. Nevertheless, party members, for some reason that not even journalists or news editors were unable to fathom, had voted unanimously for the man. It has to be stated that rumours went around that he was a member of the Flat Earth Society, or some sort of Grand Wizard of a secret assemblage, or even that, as an American citizen and overseas voter, he had helped to put the forty-fifth president in power in 2017. All such gossip, because so little was actually known about him. Regardless of this, things were about to change… radically.

On the day, and in the chamber, people waited with baited breath to hear the newly elected leader’s inaugural policy speech. The upper gallery was filled to capacity.

The man rose to his feet.

He began. “Even those who oppose my political views will have to appreciate my ability to know what is important to the man-in-the-street, what he really wants and therefore, broadly, ipso facto, what needs to be done to create a much happier and more contented general public. It is on this basis, that my first major policy is to remove both Mondays and Thursdays from the week.”

The chamber fell silent.

“Let’s face it, nobody actually likes Mondays. As for Thursdays, I just never really felt at home with these. Naturally, I’m leaving the weekends alone, most people in their right minds enjoy these. This creates a three-day working week, Tuesday Wednesday and Friday. Let’s be honest, everybody loves Fridays. However, these changes do require a fair number of initial administrative adjustments, such as calendars, invoicing systems, cinema tickets, and so on. These matters will be minimalised by increasing the number of public servants, who, like everyone else, will share in the advantages of the much shorter working week.”

Looking up at the visiting members of the public, he raised his arms and went on.

“So, together, we will all enjoy a substantial reduction in working hours, a greater proportion of time spent with family, and the benefits of both birthdays and pay packets coming around a lot quicker.”

Punching the air, he finished with, “Onward and upward!”

Although the floor of the house remained unusually silent, a great, resounding cheer went up from the gallery!

The old war veteran stood alone silently at the small memorial, remembering.

It was a quiet spot in their town. It was something he did each year. It wasn’t Memorial Day, but a date that was meaningful to him. He thought about the people he knew back then, what they did, what they sacrificed. Some of them had passed away, others not. Men mostly; what a mixed bunch they were, coming from all walks of life. He thought about how their considerations about what was going on around them had varied greatly. Most of his comrades had understood the sacrifice that they were all making, and the reason they were making it. He had met so many people during that time in his life, but could only remember a few.

He opened his eyes as the sound of footsteps came closer.

The boy, around fifteen years old, was suddenly at his side, looking at the monument.

The man turned and said, “Good morning, son.”

The boy just nodded. “You might not like it, but I think war is stupid. It just gets people killed.” He looked up at the edifice. “We don’t need things like this to remind us of how dumb we are.”

“Is that right?”

“It certainly is. I’ve been on anti-war demonstrations, and I think it’s stupid,” he repeated.

The old man nodded with a smile. “Do you know what democracy is.”

“Yes, I do.”

“That’s good. You’ll know then, that it means it’s about people who live in a country, like us, who govern themselves by electing those that they want to make decisions for them.”

The boy nodded with a grin. “Yes, I guess I knew all that.”

The old man pointed at the memorial. “Those that fought in the war were doing that so you could have the democratic right to say what you did, when you arrived.”

The boy gave a small shrug. “OK. I guess.”

A handshake had always meant a great deal to the old man, which was why he raised his arm.

After a moment, the boy took his hand and shook it. Then, with a smile, he went on his way.

Ever since she was a kid, she liked playing with the Ouija board.

When she lived with her parents, they obviously weren’t too keen with her spending so much time with it, on the basis that enabling the dead to make contact with the living wasn’t at all natural. Despite this, sometimes she managed to have a friend come around and they would spend time with it in her room. This less-than-ideal situation was rectified when she moved into her own apartment. Here, after work, she could spend as much time as she liked sitting in her small lounge room, moving the planchette around in order to spell messages. Although in the past she had experienced a number of successful communications with the other side, this had moved on significantly to a point where the board itself was being bypassed.

At first, the voices that she was hearing were just mumblings and hardly audible, but over time they grew stronger and more coherent. Of course, there were times when she had doubts about whether she was actually hearing such things or just imagining them. The credulity of it all was put to the test the evening she received an explicit request.

After a long stint of using the board to confirm that she had understood what was being asked of her, she turned to her little-used laptop to carry out the necessary research, as it involved buying something and taking it somewhere.

She was being asked to take a single stemmed yellow chrysanthemum to a specific location. It had to be placed on a small bench, located at the farthest point from the entrance of a large fenced park on the other side of town. This being a place that she’d never visited before.

The request came at very short notice. This had to happen on the following day, just before twelve o’clock. As a result of this, she decided to phone in sick in the morning. She felt sure that taking a day off wouldn’t be a problem. She would also have to contact local florists to ensure that they had what she wanted.

All this was managed and she had made her way to the park with a few minutes in hand. As she entered, she was surprised to find it quite empty. It was likely, she thought, that when people came out from the local businesses it would begin to fill. No doubt, the timing of what she was doing, would be related to this observation.

She hoped that the park seat she was heading for was unoccupied. As she made her way across a great expanse of grass, she was able to make out that it was. On arrival, she removed the wrapping and deposited the flower.

No mention had been made as to what was supposed to happen after the request had been fulfilled. This being the case, and because this event may well dispose of any doubts she had about the veracity of what she had become involved with, she had also brought a small lunchbox with sandwiches. She found a spot not too far from the bench and sat down with her lunch. A few minutes later, some distance away, a single figure was making its way through the park. It was a woman. She was surprisingly young and very attractive, dressed in formal office attire. She too was carrying a small bag.

Arriving at the seat, she stood facing it for several long moments before sitting down holding the stem with both hands, looking around. The flower provider eyed the woman without displaying any particular interest. The woman could be seen continually smelling the blossom and holding it against herself, while the movement of her head showed that she was sobbing.

The Ouija board owner surreptitiously stood and made her way out of the park.

As she went, she couldn’t help wondering what the future held for her now…

She had not long moved into the street.

The newcomer was a single woman in her early forties. The removal van had only been gone a few days before a sign outside had heralded a garage sale to be held on the following Saturday. It was a case of her having a great deal of belongings that she simply no longer needed. She was starting a new life in a new place. On the day, she parked her car on the front verge and laid out items on two trestle tables. Most of it consisted of small items with prices noted on pieces of paper. These were kept as low as possible in order to get rid of things. It began mid-morning, with plenty of interest. She was prepared to let it run all day, if necessary.

By mid-afternoon, she was pleased to see that the majority of it had been sold. There were only a few higher priced items left. She had anticipated this, and was prepared to end up lumbered with these. The gun was the most expensive thing she wanted to be rid of and was considering calling it a day when a man turned up and showed considerable interest in the weapon.

Apparently, he was a collector, and aside from wanting to bring the price down, he obviously meant to buy it.

Turning it over in his hands, he said, “This is a particularly fine handgun.”

“Is it?” she said, with raised eyebrows.

“Oh! Yes. They don’t make these anymore.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes. It is. It’s a P320 AXG Scorpion.” He sighed. “This is a model I don’t have. Sig Sauer discontinued production of these.”

“I didn’t know that,”

“Do you have a licence for it?” he asked.

“No. It was my husband’s. My late husband, that is.”

He pouted. “I see.”

“I’m afraid there are no bullets to go with it,” she went on. “As far as I know, it was only fired once.”

He smiled and took out his wallet.

He wanted it.

She wanted to get rid of it.

It was a deal.

There were so many questions and she didn’t answer one of them.

The short distance from the top of the steps of the District Court building to the police car went on forever. The moment she appeared there was a huge cacophony of shouted questions. Despite being escorted by three burly police officers, their progress was extremely slow. Dozens of flashbulbs were almost blinding and the news crews were there in force. Questions came thick and fast. Why did she steal the car and drive at high speed into the crowd of birthday celebraters sitting at tables outside the café? Did she loose control of the vehicle? Were her actions deliberate? How does she feel about killing two and injuring five innocent people? How did she feel about receiving such a small fine? Did she think the fact that the judge, being her uncle, had any influence on the case?

Although no response was made to any of this, once inside the waiting vehicle, just before pulling away, she gave the reporters a smile and a wink.

The children in the village often went into the wood to play.

The wood in question was a large scattering of trees located at the edge of the village. The community itself was remote, with a small population. When the children weren’t playing in the wood, they attended school. Servicing so few inhabitants, the class size was limited and presided over by a very nice new lady teacher. The woman, by her very nature, was obviously fond of children. It was this attribute that promoted a sense of both patience and understanding when the children told her, and the rest of the class, about their amazing adventures in the wood. On some occasions there would be several children all witnessing the same events. Other times, just one child alone would return with an account of some strange happening. Because of all these events, the wood in question was known by the children that played there as the ‘magic wood’.

Over the early months of her new position, she had heard many accounts of bizarre incidents that her young pupils had brought into the classroom. One child had told of seeing an old woman, sitting on the steps of a large shoe that had a front door and windows, with her face in her hands. A group of three of them said they came across a girl in a pretty, pink dress and hat, holding what looked like a long stick with a hook at the top, who was looking for her sheep. Another said they saw a large egg that was perched on top of a wall. They said it was too far away to see properly, but thought it had a face. One child said they had been walking through the wood one day and came across a sign that read ‘MacDonald’s Farm’. They said they had gone to the fence to see and hear the animals.

There were so many stories like these being told in the classroom. Some were really odd, like the time one of them had spotted an owl on a branch, wearing glasses and holding a book under its wing, or the time two of them discovered a cat, curled up fast asleep with a fiddle lying next to it.

Although the teacher could well understand where all these adventures were coming from, she was still left with an uneasy feeling. As time went on, the clear descriptions from the children, and the absolute certainty that what they were seeing was real, became harder to explain. It seemed to be the case that something about the wood itself was bringing about the images that the children were experiencing so convincingly.

It was at this point that she decided to visit the place for herself. She chose a time when there would still be sufficient daylight, while all of her charges would at least be getting ready for bed.

Entering the wood, she immediately felt the charm of it. It was quite lovely with its stand of old trees and green undergrowth. She could see why the children had found it so attractive. She was only a little way in, when she saw movement ahead. Convinced that it was not a child, was validated as she got closer. What she was witnessing was a large rabbit, wearing a jacket and waistcoat, standing upright on its hind legs, staring at a pocket watch. The animal seemed to be unaware of her presence, regardless of this the woman stood perfectly still. Quite naturally, a picture in a book from her own childhood came immediately to mind.

Making her way back to the village in the failing light and dwelling on what she had seen, she settled on the strategy that, unlike her young charges, it would be prudent to say nothing.

The year is 2392 and planet Earth is still here!

It had been during the twenty-second century that major changes were made to save the planet from total extinction. It was agreed at the time that it was too little too late, and nothing was likely to prevent the planet from eventually becoming uninhabitable. It was generally agreed by world governments that it was probably going to survive by the skin of its teeth. Because of the condition of the oceans, fish and seafood more generally were no longer a food source. The atmosphere, such that it was, meant that the skies were permanently grey with no actual sunlight coming through. Oxygen levels were so low that, even with the latest masks, the air was hard to breathe. Basically, the general pollution was seeing an ever-growing rise in death rates, reducing the world’s population.

The only respite away from any of this, for the very few who could afford it, was to travel out to other worlds; to spend time in far more pleasant surroundings. Of all the holiday planets the humans like to spend time on, the exoplanet, Kapler L72-43, located in the constellation of Gailandis, better known as Paradise World in the brochures, would have to be the destination of choice.

Apart from the ever-friendly attitude of the hosts, the entire planet was pollution free. This was evident in the pristine oceans, the land, with its wonderful variety of trees and plant life, and the clear skies. An added attraction was the fact that facemasks were not used! As already indicated, only a few of the wealthiest people from planet Earth could actually afford to spend time on any of these planets. Nevertheless, it was a thriving business for those worlds who were available to would be holidaymakers.

It came about that it was a guest, having spent a few days on Paradise World, that held this brief conversation with the main resort’s accommodation manager at the reception counter before leaving.

“As usual,” he began, “you have been a wonderful host, thank you.” He paused. “Just one thing… I have often wondered, why it is that none of your people here ever visit Earth?”

At this point his gracious host, after indicating that those of his world were generally reluctant to talk about such things, beckoned him to move to the far end of the counter.

Leaning a little closer, he whispered, “Put it this way sir, if you were away from home and needed to visit a public convenience, but found that it was completely filthy, would you go in?”

He sat thinking about how things were going pear-shaped.

It had been one hell of a year and it was only half over! He looked down at what he’d scribbled. He loved writing. In fact, it was the one thing he did best, but not today; his heart simply wasn’t in it. Not after the calamity of yesterday. He looked around. It was generally accepted that the city wasn’t the nicest place to run a business. The streets were noisy with vendors selling their wares. There were that many bells constantly ringing, and there were beggars wherever you looked. It had become so crowded that the place had ongoing health and hygiene issues. These were things that everyone who lived and worked there had to suffer.

Despite all this, it was where he made his living. Until yesterday, that is.

Let’s face it, it’s not every day that your place of business burns to the ground!

He’ll certainly be glad when it’s over.

Maybe next year will be better?

Roll on 1614!!

The elderly widower sat in the waiting room, looking at the red blotches on his hands.

His wife had regularly told him to see the doctor about it, but he kept putting it off. It didn’t seem worth the trouble until the skin began to itch. Now, with the condition on both hands, he knew it was time to do something about getting it looked at. It goes without saying that he didn’t like attending the surgery. He was scratching his hands when he was told to go through. Sitting down in front of the doctor, he held up his hands.

The medical man was horrified. He was obviously looking at an advanced case of Eczema. Knowing that the patient’s wife had passed away the year before, he surmised that the man had let himself go, probably through grief.

“My word,” he said, “how did they ever get into that condition? I think you should have come to see me a lot earlier than this.”

The old man dropped his hands to his lap. He grimaced and said, “Yes, you’re right. She told me to come and see you.”

The doctor raised his eyebrows. “I should think so.” He shook his head. “How long ago did she tell you to do that?”

The man hung his head and mumbled, “Yesterday.”

Beachcombing was his hobby.

The simple truth of it was that he just loved doing it. At home he had a wonderful collection; gathered over the years. Much like anglers, he had his favourite spot. It was definitely better than any other stretch along that part of the coastline. It was a relatively small patch of beach, formed by two dunes stretching down towards the sea at either end. He seemed to have total rites to it. He should know, he’d been coming to the spot for almost two decades. At least, in all that time, he’d never seen any other enthusiasts combing there. It was truly amazing just what could be found; everything from bits of interestingly shaped driftwood to a great variety of shells, coming in so many sizes and colours. He’d sometimes find fossils, bits of pottery and sea glass that had been tumbled and weathered into strange little shapes. Of course, not so often, coins and jewellery.

However, this all changed the day he found the tin.

At first, it was the tip of something metallic. He knelt down and scooped away the sand around it. As he brought it up, he could see that the object was a round, metal container with a lid. The thing felt quite heavy. It had a screw top that took a lot of effort to unscrew. When it was off, he sat cross-legged, wide-eyed, for what seemed an age, staring at what it held. It was a large, very tightly bound roll of banknotes. He wondered, had it been washed up or had it been buried here? How long has it been here? Months, days, hours… or this morning, even? He looked around. Whatever was the case, somebody would be coming back for it.

His hands were shaking as he finally fumbled with the lid, getting it back on. He quickly dropped it into his knapsack and looked around again. As usual, not a soul in sight.

As he made his way back through the dunes, he tried to clear his thoughts. One thing was certain. Although it would be a horrible sacrifice, he’d have to find another spot. To be safe, he could never come back here again.

Sadly, he would have to relocate…