Author: Alexander Fawn

 He was just an ordinary kid… originally that is.

It all started the night he watched a TV program on telekinesis. He was fascinated by the idea. That night, as he lay in bed, he really wished his alarm clock would rise up, circle the room and set itself back down again… and it did!

The following day in class he demonstrated his new-found powers, much to both the delight and horror of classmates and teachers alike. Not all onlookers liked the idea of a school desk floating out into the playground and back again through a different window.

Within days his story was being told in the national press, and after a couple of weeks he was getting international attention. With his parents’ full support, for there was an awful lot of money to be made, he quit school almost immediately, flying out to a Vegas casino, where he was due to strut his stuff for a crowd of high-flyers happy to pay astronomical sums for tickets.

In fact, it was the night before his big debut that he found out that it wasn’t him doing any of this clever stuff at all. He was being assisted. Nobody knows quite what happened in the luxury suite of the hotel that night, but sometime later, a friend and fellow illusionist recounted a late night conversation they’d had in a bar.

He maintained that after a night of heavy drinking it had come out that a poltergeist was responsible for these miraculous happenings. This supernatural being had found that the mischief it got up to was great fun at first, but it was now getting bored with it and wanted it to stop. His friend had then resorted to blackmail, saying that if it didn’t continue to perform he would expose it. This had done the trick for the time being, because poltergeists really don’t like being exposed.

It was on that fateful night after his last big show that the mischievous spirit decided that enough was enough and opted out of their partnership. Of course, nobody knows how it happened or what motivated his unseen host to end it the way it did… but it was sensational.

After repeated banging on the door to the showman’s room, the hotel manager unlocked the suite using a master key. He was found dead, lying flat on the floor, arms at his sides as though he were standing to attention, with no signs of being attacked or harmed in any way.

The means of his demise would have been a puzzlement in itself, but when he was examined more closely it was discovered that he was hovering just above the carpet!

The people in the quaint little hamlet of Richford had a secret.

The folly, for that’s what the locals called it, sat sheltered within a copse of oaks. It had been there for over five hundred years and cherished by the inhabitants. The barn or stone shed, for that’s what it was, would be made available through a narrow gate. Visitors could walk around it at set times during the day for a small entrance fee, but were not able to enter it. It was deemed to be too dangerous. The gate was part of the high wooden fence that surrounded the entire stand of trees. This being all part of keeping the customers safe.

The story that they would put about was that it was put there by a powerful sorcerer during the Dark Ages. He had the barn built from stone quarried nearby and when it was finished he had cast a spell that would enable his followers to settle there, living in comfort for their remaining years. That was the full extent of the legend that any would offer to the tourists that went out of their way to visit it, and spend a little money in the few shops that lined the narrow road. That was all rather vague, but it didn’t deter people visiting, just for the novelty.

Little did any outsider know that this old building had a sentinel. He was from a line that went back through countless generations with the honourable duty of guarding it. He, and he alone held the key, and only he would allow those living there to enter through the ancient wooden door, to pass in and out again.

No one ever really challenged the notion that he original inexhaustible supply of gold coins that the chest first held had somehow changed again and again through the ages; but the fact that it now produced an ongoing bounty of used bank notes was all they needed to know.

There were very strict rules of course, how often, how much, and so on, strict quotas that had been passed on down through the centuries, but the ancient rite had always been held sacrosanct. All that was true, until the incident. Nobody saw it coming…

The writer stopped writing.

He leaned back and stared out of his window. “Where to from here?” he mumbled. He considered; several options came to him straight away. He sat, deep in thought. A boy; yes some malevolent child could slip a note into his pocket bringing the spell undone, or a bird could fly in and make off with a note for nest-building, or some freak gust of wind… No. He would have to give it some thought.

He looked again at the garden bathed in sun. “I’ll have to come back to it” he whispered. He got up, stretched, and left the room…

He sat looking around the tiny kitchen.

A room, like the rest of the house, only too familiar to him. He hated it. He had never known any other. He was living at home with his parents up until they passed on, one at a time, within only a few months of each other. This should have been a long awaited time of peace and seclusion for him, but it wasn’t. He had met her. Or had she met him?

Of course, they moved in. The house held no happy memories for him, but they moved in. A readymade home she had said. Just another bad decision; no, two; the house and her.

He reflected on the likelihood of his lifelong obsession being behind it all. The never-ending craving to meet Him. Ever since he was a small boy he had wondered what Satan actually looked like. It was a compulsive feeling that lay in the darkest recesses of his mind for almost all of his life. Then, one night they had both been drinking, he opened his heart to her. Why not? Lots of people had strange obsessions, some a lot stranger he thought. But of course, she just laughed. She laughed a lot that night.

This was not that long ago now, and ever since then he knew they were destined to go their separate ways. His hatred for women had always been there of course, but after that night; after sharing his most intimate desire with her, after the laughing, his loathing for her simply grew and grew.

At least he could sit and think about it now. The meeting; the final quelling of the powerful desire to come face to face with… the Lord of the Flies, the Prince of Darkness, Satan. He knew it would be soon.

As he gulped down the last of the whiskey, memories came flooding back of how his father would stagger home drunk, then beat him. He would lay into him as though he would never stop, until he finally tired from the exertion of pounding on his son and simply fall over, to be left where he lay until the next day.

The worst thrashing he ever received was when his father discovered a book of Satanic Rites in his bedroom. He knew for certain then that if he ever found out that he was a member of a Satanic Order, his father would surely kill him. After the book incident the beatings came less and less often. He was sure his Master had a hand in that.

Ah! His Master! They would be meeting soon. He felt sure that He was waiting for him. He could feel him waiting. He looked up at the clock; not long now. Only a matter of minutes.

He held the empty brown bottle in his hand. Empty now of all those little orange pills he had been saving up for the occasion. As he stared at what was left of the original label he felt his eyes lose focus. Yes. It was starting. Not long now. He felt a strange coldness running through his limbs. Not long. He made the effort to look down at her for one last time. He could just make out the patch of red that had billowed out around the kitchen knife.

Beyond the increasing pain that now racked his body, he was overcome with joy of finally knowing; finally meeting… any moment now!

 

There is something about the feel of old clothes,

How they fit better and soften with time.

When worn over and over again,

They eventually hit their prime.

–

Maybe it’s only a man thing,

Finding it hard to throw out.

But clothes slowly get better with age,

Of that there is no doubt.

–

When slippers are soft and cosy,

When soft blue denim is fading,

When a jacket has moulded to your form,

They certainly don’t need upgrading.

–

If you’re not really out to look sharp,

And are never a victim of fashion,

You should try keeping clothes going forever.

Now, that’s what I call a passion!

–

When summer t-shirts weigh nothing at all

Because they’re so old and so thin,

To toss them out, without a doubt,

Would be a terrible sin.

–

When a garment no longer looks its best,

And you are told that you should donate.

“Charity begins at home”, should be used,

To end any needless debate.

–

I use my best hangers to hang them,

While trying not to moan.

‘Cause like it or not, I get told quite a lot,

They can only be worn at home.

So, when an item gets old and baggy,

With a hint of cologne from the past,

And the thought comes about,

That I should chuck it out,

I just wait… ‘til the moment has passed!

The boss came out of his office and approached the desk.

“Good morning Preston, I saw you…”

“Pulling in?” he said, with a smile.

“Pardon?”

“You saw me pulling into the car park this morning, in my new car.”

The boss looked confused. “No. I saw you hadn’t finished the…”

“Brindley file?”

“The what?”

“The Brindley file, I know, I‘m working on it now.”

The boss raised his eyebrows. “No. I don’t know about the Brindley file. Is that something you’re working on?”

Preston looked embarrassed. “Erm! Well, yes.”

The boss shrugged. “No. No, I was going to ask you about the Morgan account. Do you think…”

“I can get it finished ASAP?”

“No. Not at all, I was going to ask if you could put it on hold.” The boss grimaced as frustration began to set in. It was always like this when he had to deal with Preston.

He went on. “I’ve just had…”

“A call?”

“A what?”

“A call, from them, about their account.”

The boss sighed “No. I’ve had second thoughts about the rates we are offering.”

“Too high?”

The boss looked worried. “No. Too low. I would really like to…”

“Have them look elsewhere?”

“No Preston. Not at all. I’d like to keep them as clients.”

He glared at Preston and said “I want to up it by half a percent. I’m afraid it means going over the figures again, along with all the paperwork of course.”

Preston looked down at his keyboard. “Not a problem. That shouldn’t take long. This predictive text is wonderful!”

 

It all started with a small card, haphazardly jammed into the corner of the shop’s window.

He sometimes used the lane as a shortcut between the bus stop and school. The shop itself was pretty dingy. The card read Unwanted Relatives Disposed Of. He had never noticed it before. He went in and made enquiries. It was very expensive. The way it worked was you paid for a ticket, which would be sent to the chosen relative in the guise of a randomly selected winning prize. The trip of a lifetime; starting by train.

He started saving.

She had always been really nasty to him when he was a kid. She always looked sour. She never liked children, and said so. He had to take on two extra paper rounds, but finally, he went back and bought her ticket.

She took her seat, thrilled with the prospect of what lay ahead, along with all the other winners; hundreds of them. As soon as it pulled out of the station the conductor picked up the microphone. “Good morning ladies and gentlemen, please sit back and enjoy your journey to…” He went quiet. The train conductor simply could not remember the train’s destination. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Ah! Sorry, this train is going to…” Again, no destination.

All through the carriages passengers were starting to wonder not only where they were going, but where they originally thought they were going. They didn’t know; they couldn’t remember. They peered out of the windows, but the mist was so dense they couldn’t see a thing.

“Well people,” the conductor laughed nervously and went on, “let’s just see where the journey takes us, shall we?” Not surprisingly, nobody answered. The train just kept rattling along, never stopping, never emerging from the fog that seemed to travel with it, with the conductor never remembering where it was headed.

The schoolboy had no idea where she would end up, or if she would end up anywhere. After all, people go missing all the time. After a while the police and other agencies just stop looking; anyway, people like these are never really missed.

He certainly wouldn’t miss Aunt Dora!

He sat staring out at the greenery of the garden; he found great solace in the beauty of nature.

Yes, he remembered; he could see it now. He could see himself standing in a line of first year apprentices. He sat for a while visualizing the white, pressed lab coats. The dress mode that told everybody you were there for the training – there to be told. Good old days really… technology at the leading edge. New stuff being developed for the world of engineering and commerce; with large companies sending in orders for pumping, diffusing and heating equipment; all destined for the world outside.

The foreman had addressed the group of some fifteen or so young boys. Boys, because back then engineering was for males. He gave a short pep talk about their rotation through the various departments within the company.

Then came the man in the suit. The Personnel Manager. What did he say? He said there were three stages to a man’s life. Pretty grandiose stuff really! He told them there was school, and said they had all seemed to have progressed through that. A little touch of comedy to ease the tension on that first day. There was work… and then… then there was retirement.

Retirement! Something happened at that point. Some strange feeling of distant foreboding had set off a small, insistent alarm bell in his brain. He didn’t really understand it at the time, but he did now.

He thought back over the years and the number of times he had said that retirement was not something he ever wanted to seriously consider. But now, here it was, gnashing its bloody teeth at him!

He had recently dreamt up a newspaper headline; The Great Technical Writer Depression of 2013.

He sat pondering for a while, idly musing on what such an article would say. Sources within the recruitment industry tell us that we have entered a period of economic decline, during which the number of suitable contract roles for Technical Writers has fallen to, and remains at, a severely low level.

He smiled to himself. No, not really. Far too many other issues for anyone to be bothered about that.

He thought back to a recent conversation with his wife. He had referred to his situation as ‘falling into the abyss’, ‘passing through the gates of hell’, ‘being swept into the maelstrom’. Colourful terms, but summing up the way he felt nevertheless.

He was penning notes about the sheer ghastliness of it all when he was brought back from his reverie by one of the cats leaping up to the sill outside of  the study window. The movement caused a momentary distraction and he looked up to see the pet staring in.

He then looked out beyond… beyond to the greenery of the garden.

He became aware that he was finding comfort again, and reflected on how powerful a thing it was to be lifted from the maelstrom and brought gently back to the beauty of nature. It was always there, always available. The ever present gift of finding solace in the beauty of nature.

The writer was having trouble moving on with his story.

This was a difficult scene to close. He only really needed the detective to leave the room. That was all… as simple as that! Just finish this part off, so he can move on to the next chapter. He sat thinking for a while, then went on typing.

The detective closed the book and left the room.

The writer stared at the screen. No. It needs more than that. He typed…

The detective searched the room thoroughly before leaving.

Maybe more needed here. He tried…

The detective peered out of the window, tapping his magnifying glass on his chin. Suddenly, he swore softly to himself and rushed out of the room.

No… that’s too much. Maybe he just needs to be called out of the room.

The constable tapped on the door and opened it. “You’re wanted downstairs sir.” The detective followed him out.

That’s OK, but does he need to go back down at this point? No… that isn’t necessary. Does he simply need to know that there’s a clue in the room, but can’t quite put his finger on it?

The detective felt sure that the answer was in the diary he held. He left the room deep in thought.

Does the detective get his sudden revelation here? Perhaps not. Not straight away anyway. How about…

The detective closed the photo album and left the room.

No! That won’t work… too simple.

The writer had become very frustrated with this. He thought… enough is enough!

He closed his laptop and left the room!

How do we all get on together?

How is the issue of distance offset?

How do we each stay in touch?

Of course, there’s the Internet.

–

With this we make bookings and financially transact.

We research, self-educate and shop.

We can look at what the world has to offer;

With updates that never stop.

–

But further to its practical use

Of updating ourselves in real time,

There is another darker side;

Still only in its prime.

–

It moves into another world,

Including the shadowy place of text-dating.

Of late night computers that glow in dark rooms;

Of typing and sending and waiting.

–

Are there really such things as Internet lovers,

With pictures and words on a screen?

Are they each really making a friend,

Or just buying sight unseen?

–

Are people actually meeting,

With only a mouse’s click?

Can their lives come so easily together?

Can they really bond that quick?

–

Or are there keyboards out there that stalk?

There owners cunning and knowing

There are lonely people in cloistered bedrooms,

With black coffee keeping them going?

–

Can they trust and become infatuated,

With sweet words and a pixeled face?

Could this be the partner they’ve been searching for?

Can they be sure that this is the case?

–

Or are they just looking for someone to listen,

Or someone who really cares?

Are they searching for acceptance from strangers,

Or just someone to hear their prayers?

–

Are they just sending out random signals,

Or looking for the meaning of life,

Or rambling through sad fantasies,

Or escaping some personal strife?

–

For those who’ve lost touch with reality,

Are social networks some sad masquerade?

With senders making false profiles and claims

With ploys designed to persuade?

–

Are they trapped in some strange dimension?

Are they merely deprived of sleep?

Will the click of a button solve all of their woes?

Do their lives just need a clean sweep?

–

Do bloodshot eyes blink at a flickering screen?

Has the neck developed a crick?

Has the wrist showed signs of RSI?

Has the face taken on a tick?

–

Are they playing with words in cyberspace,

With their curtains drawn tightly closed?

Attempting to achieve some frail intimacy,

Not knowing if real names are disclosed.

Is it an outlet for creativity,

Or an addiction to the Internet drug?

Is it a withdrawal from real society,

By sweeping life under the rug?

–

Or is it all about zeros and ones

That buzz through some distant server,

And the flowing of tiny electrical currents

That would baffle the average observer?

–

This is a wondrous technology,

But what comes after the Net.

Has it been secretly invented,

Or simply not thought of yet?

–

Let us hope it is based on human needs;

That hopes of closeness are met.

That it brings souls more genuinely together,

Beyond the Internet.

He only knew her as ‘the girl’, she didn’t have a name.

He knew exactly what she looked like; height, age, figure, eyes brown, hair black, black and long and wispy. The image was there. It was his private fantasy and he never shared it. Why should he? Who would understand? She was about his age, around twenty. She had come into his life, or maybe into his mind would be more accurate, whatever, she had been there for him since he started work in the city. For more than three years she had been there, just a misty image that evaporated if he looked too close. He saw her time and time again.

He had learned not to look at her directly. If he did she would simply disappear. If he only kept her just within his peripheral vision she would stay. Whether she was walking, sitting on a park bench or staring into a shop window, wherever, by doing this he could keep her for a while before she faded away. That is why he never shared it. No one would understand.

It happened on the morning train. He sat idly staring out at the platform when he saw her. Again, that graceful walk with the head held just a little high, with her hair being tossed softly in the wind. He lowered his gaze as she approached his door. She was entering the carriage! She looked so real. She had never been this close before. She stood in front of him. He dared to look up.

She was pointing at the half space next to him. He couldn’t believe how real she seemed. He looked around to see if any of the other passengers were seeing her. None of them were taking any notice. He looked up at her again. She was still pointing. She smiled, the smile he had caught glimpses of so often.

She said “Sorry, where you saving this for someone?”

He looked at the seat and saw he was taking up too much room. Still in shock, he slowly shook his head and moved over. She sat. She was real!

With a questioning look, she said “Are you sure? You looked as though you were looking for someone.” Before he could answer, the train jolted forward and his eyes snapped open. He had fallen asleep.

As he watched the world outside pick up speed, he wondered whether he would see her today. He really hoped so.