Author: Alexander Fawn

It all seemed to start when the girl in the hairdressers sneezed while cutting hair.

She apologised of course, but the damage was done. Her customer found herself sitting on a bus a few days later being racked by a severe coughing fit. Later that week, the young student seated in front of her was telling his father about an upcoming exam when he sneezed and blew his nose.

Later, his father coughed while showing an elderly lady samples of carpet they sold in the store. Soon after, she sneezed while waiting to be served in the post office. The man next to her in the queue started coughing while he was talking to his neighbour. His neighbour coughed in a taxi.

The driver of the taxi coughed while working on jig-saw puzzle with his daughter. She sneezed near the instructor in the gymnasium. He sneezed while straightening his son’s tie. The boy coughed while talking to his teacher.

The teacher sneezed while helping her husband on with his coat. He coughed later that day, when he was giving change to a young man who was passenger on the city ferry. A day or two later, it seemed perfectly natural for the young man to kiss his girlfriend goodnight.

A couple of days following that, she sneezed while cutting hair.

She is very young.

Her clothes are ragged and she is dirty. There is not enough water to wash. The language that she was born to, is only now coming slowly to her. She can say the names of her mother and father and some of her former friends. These sounds are precious to her. Some of her friends are no longer here; she doesn’t know why.

She has had no real schooling. She is told to stay close. Her mother sits nearby, crying and holding a baby. Her mother hurt her leg badly when they ran to this place; it is swelling up. She hasn’t seen her father for several days and doesn’t know what that means.

Between the blasts that shake the unsealed roads and alleys of her town she hears the incessant rumbling of falling masonry. The air is very dusty. It makes it hard to breathe and she coughs a lot. Day after day there is smoke in the air.

She sometimes sees people with blood on them.

The broken toy she holds onto so tightly is no longer recognisable as anything. She knows what it is, what it was.

She could be in one of a number of countries. She won’t be seen by anyone. There are no TV cameras to capture her image.

She won’t be seen by the men in their planes, or the men with rifles and machine guns and rocket launchers. No one in the war rooms, or the barracks, or government buildings, or arms factories will ever have to see her.

She cannot imagine the nature and resolve of the soldiers that are sweeping through the area. She would have no idea what they are doing. It would be far beyond her to fathom their reason for doing it.

She is frightened. She is always frightened and has no other emotion to compare it with.

She is no more and no less precious than any other girl her age.

She has no way of knowing that soon she won’t be there.

So little is known about her. She has a thousand names.

Her passing will not be noticed. No family members will remain to mourn her.

She is the reason all others must hang their heads.

 

The wind had taken him; it had swept him clean off the high-rise building. With useless limbs whipping wildly, he plummeted to the concrete below. As he tumbled faster and faster past dozens of windows, Gerry realised two things. Firstly, his safety line had not been connected properly, and secondly, he had been totally involved in reliving last night’s video, in which he had been mentally playing the lead role. He loved movies.

He was screaming now, as loud as the rushing wind would allow… but as loud as he could, anyway. Then things began to change. An eerie silence fell and a soft whispering swam around inside his head. He was no longer falling but floating; suspended somehow, and the whispering gradually took on some sort of meaning.

“Gerald”. It was saying. “Gerald, I want to talk to you”.

He looked around at the soft, grey cloud that seemed to be cradling him. As he peered through the mist he saw the shadow approaching.

When it finally came to a halt in front of him he made out an extremely thin man, in fact, a skeleton, dressed in a long, black gown, holding a scythe. Gerry recognised him without any trouble, as the reaper. Right there and then, he was floating in mid air looking up into the face of Death. Gerry started to scream again; this time much louder, owing to the much improved environment.

Death winced, “Oi! Vay! Are you finished with the screaming already?” it croaked.

Gerry paused momentarily, trying to take in the concept of a Jewish reaper, then thought better of it and started screaming again.

The figure in black just watched him for a while; obviously waiting. Eventually exhaustion took over and Gerry dropped to a heavy gasping.

“If you’re finished with the screaming; I only need to ask you a question.”

“Do what? Are you mad? You have me suspended here, in this… this invisible hammock, and you want to ask me a question? Are you nuts?”

“Vai! This is not a quiz show. If you don’t like questions how about we just shmooze for a minute?”

“Shmooze? What’s that?”

“Oy vai! Shmooze, you know, a little chat, small talk”. He seemed to scratch his bony head with the tip of his blade. “Wait. I’ll change my speech pattern. Bone finger-tips touched his vertebrae, where a neck might normally be.

“OK Gerald I just have…”

“Gerry.”

“What was that?”

“Gerry. People call me Gerry, I never liked Gerald.”

“OK! OK! Gerry. I just have one question for you. One; that’s all”.

Gerry said. “OK. OK. Ask your question”.

“Do you want my job?”

“Eh?”

“I would like to know whether you would be interested in doing my job.”

Gerry looked baffled. “What do you mean your job?”

“You know; giving the calling, announcing when numbers are up… reaping!”

“You’re making me a job offer, right?”

“Yes, if you like.”

“Why?”

The figure sighed. “I’ve had enough. I’d really like to retire.”

“But you’re Death! I didn’t know you could retire.”

“Oh! I can, but when I put in my application, I was told that I had to find a replacement. So, what do think? Better than this isn’t it? You know…” he look down through the mist at the distant street. “…better than that down there.”

Gerry thought for a moment and said “Maybe”.

“It wouldn’t take much to transfer you”.

“Why would I want to transfer?”

“Well, like I said, you get to stay alive for one thing. Well, not exactly alive, not as such, but almost!”

“You mean I’d have to become an undead?”

“No, not undead; I don’t know what it is exactly but it’s definitely an existence, which many regard as much better than non-existence. Believe me, it is non-existence that waits for you down there on the road.”

Gerry thought deeply for a while.

Death said “Well, do you want the job?”

Gerry considered a little longer and said. “No! No thanks.”

The cloud vanished and he began falling again, although he didn’t seem to be getting any closer to the ground. Then he noticed that Death was floating beside him.

He was saying something. “You are really, really sure about this? You are absolutely sure you don’t want this job instead of being dead? It’s not too bad really. You actually get to meet lots of interesting people”.

“No, like I told you, I don’t want your job.” Gerry closed his eyes, resigned now to his fate.

“You’re positive then. You’re about to die here. Your body is going to smash into the middle of the street, make women scream, block traffic and generally lower the tone of the neighbourhood”.

“I told you before; I said no, I don’t want it.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“You really sure you don’t want it?”

“Yes!”

“Really, really sure?”

“Yes! I don’t want your job! Go away and let me die in peace.”

“What about the perks?”

“What perks?”

“Oh! Didn’t I mention them?”

“No. You didn’t. What perks?”

“Free video vouchers!”

“Free…?” Gerry didn’t finish the sentence. He was now making women scream, blocking traffic and generally lowering the tone of the neighbourhood.

“Bloody ingrate”, Death muttered, as he pulled a piece of paper out from his robe. He looked down his list… and disappeared.

He had more applicants to screen.

To watch a car speeding up

Is a truly amazing site,

Going faster and faster,

When rushing towards a red light!

–

I’ve seen it in the city.

I’ve seen it day and night.

A car moving ever faster,

Towards a bright, red light.

–

Now it’s bad enough to rush at all,

To miss out on the world around.

To hurry past what this world offers,

With all the wonders that abound.

–

Such folk who tend to be hasty,

Those who rush through their span,

Never hear the rustle of leaves,

Or wonder at the moon when they can.

–

No time to stop and look around.

No time to enjoy the hours.

No time to feel a gentle breeze.

No time to smell the flowers.

–

But to miss all this while on the run;

While squandering their appointed lot,

Is only part of what really takes place,

As they race to who knows what.

–

Is all this some kind of analogy,

About not heeding the warning chime?

About heading into uncertainty;

Wrong turnings, corruption and crime?

–

Is it drawing a very long bow

To see this reflection of life?

To see this speeding car

Representing some future strife?

–

The red signs that life gives a soul

Are put there to keep us from harm.

But what if they don’t see the light?

What if they don’t hear the alarm?

Can they not see what’s coming?

Can they not look ahead?

Don’t they see the looming sign?

Don’t they know that it’s red!

How easy it would have been for the man to just pass by the old busker without noticing it.

It was rare to see a beggar crouching against a shop window on the main street. It was lunchtime and people bustling along the pavement were having to skirt around him, being careful not to disturb his tatty old hat with its meagre collection of coins.

But the man on his lunch break had noticed it. It was nothing short of a miracle. How long had it been? Ten, no, fifteen years at least. He just couldn’t believe his luck, but now more than ever, he needed to use all of his skills as a commodities trader to clinch the deal. First he would think carefully about his approach. He crossed the street and double back to take up a position opposite. He had to be sure that the beggar didn’t suddenly move on and get lost in the crowd.

Occasionally the old man would give a short burst on a mouthorgan, more for getting attention than entertainment. From time to time, passers-by would drop the odd piece of change into the upturned bucket hat. It was green with an extra wide brim, just right for catching donations. He seemed to be doing quite well, and unbeknown to the professional man, the wily old beggar was aware that he was being watched.

After spending a few minutes working on his strategy, the man in the suit and tie crossed the street and tossed several gold coins into the hat. The beggar looked up, knowing that something was coming.

“I’ve decided to be straight with you” he said. “I’d like to buy your hat”.

“And why would you want to do that?” came the reply.

The man was becoming conscious that he was getting in the way of the foot traffic. He moved alongside the beggar and squatted down. Now eye-to-eye, he said “The fact is, a good fifteen or more years ago my wife put this hat into the charity bag by mistake, and I would really like to buy it back.”

He pulled out his wallet and checked the contents. “We could settle this for ten dollars.” The old man just stared at him. “OK. Fifty. I’ll give you fifty for it.”

The old man looked down at the hat, shaking his head. “My son bought me this hat. He died last year.”

Another check of the wallet and he said “OK. A hundred.”

The old man looked up and said “OK.” With that he emptied out the coins, stuffed them into his pocket, handed up the hat, took the notes, crumpled them and wedged them down with the coins. The other was gazing at the old hat with reverance and hardly noticed the old guy gather up his few belongings and quickly disappear into the crowd.

He folded the hat carefully and returned to the office. He still couldn’t believe his good fortune and could hardly wait to get home and tell his wife about it. She would be amazed.

As he entered the house he called out, saying he had some exciting news. His wife appeared wiping her hands on dish towel. “What is it? I’m in the middle of getting tea.”

He held the hat up with a wide grid. “Look what I’ve got.”

“I see. What have you got?”

“My hat! Can you believe it? I bought it off this old fella in town. My old hat!”

She gave him a mocking smile and rolled her eyes. “Your old hat?”

“Yes.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Yes it is, look.” He put it on and pointed to it. “See. My old hat!”

She shook her head. “I’m telling you, that isn’t your old hat.”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because that’s green, that’s why.”

“Well, green, yes. What about it?”

“Yours was blue.”

“Blue?”

“Yes, blue. I should know, I bought it for you. I never did like it but you insisted, so I bought it for you… and it was blue!” She went back into the kitchen, mumbling and shaking her head. She called out “What did you pay for it?”

He swallowed hard. “Five dollars.”

“Hah!” she cried. “You were had!”

He thought about blue and green, then turned red…

The wind blew gently through the damp trees and clouds moved gracefully across a soft blue sky. The autumn air was clear and light. Here and there little jewels glistened on a leaf, a stem, a blade of grass, and fleeting rainbows danced silently through the dewy forest.

A leaf moved and a spider appeared, before it hung a great sparkling web, heavy with beads of shiny water. The tree-dweller crouched in the well of a leaf. It did not move.

A bird turned slightly and lost height; its wings fanned out to gain the most from the morning breeze. With perfect skill it swooped down to the branch of its choice. In a moment, and without warning, an invisible and unaccountable gust of wind swept up to meet it. The air was sweet and unpredictable.

Twenty feet below, the spider waited by its great twinkling net.

With sudden clumsiness the bird above fought the air current and made the branch between its claws. The bow swayed for an instant and a twig fell free, plummeting helter skelter through the branches below, releasing a shower of fine dew into the morning air.

The web shook violently as it broke the twig’s fall.

The creature’s vigil was also broken, and in one swift movement it was at the base of its trap. Nothing moved. The spider knew that its meal had not yet arrived. The forest was still for endless seconds.

Somewhere above a bird flew out from the tree breaking the spell of silence, and the web spinner crept back to its leaf to wait.

It was just another miracle.

The aspiring young writer sat, quietly fingering his pen and pad.

He was allowing the wonders of his environment to soak into his very being. He breathed in slowly as a halcyon breeze embraced him with scents of nature’s green fragrance. He wondered at the blending of yellow and orange as the sun slid quietly below a distant hill. He listened intently to the wind as it rustled its way through the darkening forest. He closed his eyes and heard the soft bird calls that heralded the closing of the day. Beyond all this he was swamped by the sound of the gushing waterfall.

With eyes still closed, in his mind’s eye, he saw sparkling raindrops sliding over green and silver leaves, forming baubles of twinkling droplets. He saw these cascade through a lattice of blue-green grass-blades and soft mossy mounds, where the gentle slope of the dale sent the escalating trickle dancing over oyster-grey pebbles. He saw water running into the slope’s sweet crevices of soil with its treasures of shells, clay and shale, that over the millennia had purified these passing crystal flows, stripping away all impurities until playfully spilling over the rocky ledge, and falling as a rain-bowed stream of liquid light through the fragrant musk of the valley’s mist, plunging with a torrent of sound into the frothy waters below.

He finished his scribbling and scrambled to his feet. As he searched for where he had left his bicycle in the darkening wood he wondered what mark he would receive from his teacher for his efforts. Almost home, he stops beneath a street lamp. He fumbles out his notepad and reads: ‘The waterfall was very nice and it splashed a lot’.

As he peddles on, he is haunted by the notion that his aspirations of becoming a best-selling author were a long way off…

 

The man in the black cloak sat nursing his plate.

He was licking his fingertip and scooping up the few remaining pastry crumbs when she came back from the kitchen carrying more mince pies. “There’s more if you want” she says, with a cheery smile.

He waved an arm. “No. This is fine; delicious as usual.” He was thin and very pale, but he had flesh… not at all usual considering his calling. He was sitting at the dining table with a long scythe laying across his lap. He said “How long have we been doing this?”

She returned the pies, came back and sat across from him. She thought for a moment. “Must be five years, maybe more. Why do you ask?”

“Oh! I don’t know, five years of calling every second Tuesday of the month. It’s a pattern. Amazing that it’s never been noticed.”

She leaned forward and patted his hand. “I do so love your visits. They mean so much to me. After dear Reginald passed on I was left completely on my own, what with both my girls living overseas with their own lives to lead, there was simply no family left. Bingo once a week is a blessing I suppose, but your visits make it all worthwhile.” She sighed and added with a sudden frown “I wouldn’t want to get you into trouble.”

He scratched the white flesh of his nose with a long fingernail. “No. It’s not that.”

“What then, somethings troubling you.”

“Well, you are getting on now, one hundred and three I believe.”

“One hundred and two actually.”

“Oh! Sorry. One hundred and two.”

“One of these visits won’t necessarily be on a second Tuesday and won’t be to spoil myself with your mince pies.” He nodded. “They are very good you know.”

She beamed. “Oh! Thank you. You’re very kind.”

He went on. “I’ll be here to perform my official duty. It has to happen sometime. You’ve had, what, four close calls?”

“Four, yes.”

“Yes. Well, I can bend the rules from time to time; in your case more so, but eventually…”

She patted his hand again. “Yes, I know dear, but we don’t have to dwell on that until the time comes do we?”

He shrugged. “No. I suppose not.”

“Now. Are you quite sure you wouldn’t like another helping.”

He shook his head and stood up. “No. I’m running a little behind. I should get going.”

He walked to the front door. As she opened it she asked, “Next time? What will it be next time?”

He shouldered his scythe and smiled just as his veneer of flesh disappeared and his skeletal aspect returned. Passing through the door she could just make out a croak of words.

“Next time… pies.”

 

Rusty gates, leading to mossy paths;

Bluebells teeming through a wood.

His weekly reading from a book,

The way an English teacher should.

–

Wearing a starched and itchy ruff,

While in a chorister’s pew.

The ice across the local pond.

An endless cinema queue.

–

After-school swimming at the local baths.

The biting cold, while waiting for a bus.

Being the West Wind in a school play.

The drama coach, who loved to cause a fuss.

–

Our garden full of autumn leaves.

The smell of bathroom soap.

An endless park with squeaky swings.

A pond with hanging rope.

–

Books from the library.

The hoot of distant owls.

Car rides to the city.

A line of drying towels.

Grinning for a photo shoot.

A hammock in the trees.

A cat upon the windowsill.

A jangling of front door keys.

–

Blank poetry notes, with lines unwritten.

A page waiting, with just a squiggle.

My mother’s food, my father’s smile,

My younger brother’s giggle.

–

A bric-a-brac of memories.

Now fading, hard to see.

But be they bright or be they dim,

They all belong to me.

Ronald stood with the larder door open, staring in.

This memory thing was getting really bad. He was finding that more and more he would open a door, a cupboard or a drawer and stare at the contents with no idea what it was that he went there for. There was a name for the condition but he could never remember it.

Last week he was in the garage – lots of room in there now because after the last incident he wasn’t allowed to drive any more – anyway, he was in the garage trying to remember what he wanted in there. After several agonising minutes it came to him that he was looking for milk. So he went back into the house very annoyed because being away so long his tea was bound to be stone cold; and he hated cold tea. So, it turned out that when he got back that wasn’t a problem, because he hadn’t poured it. In fact, he hadn’t even boiled the kettle! He was getting really thirsty by now so he decided to just have a glass of milk instead, so he went back into the garage to get it!

Ronald knew this was an age-related condition. It had a name but he couldn’t remember it. He had been given a pamphlet at the surgery that described the problem, with a list of really useful hints all aimed at helping people cope with… with whatever this thing was called. Anyway, he went looking for it the other day, but couldn’t figure out where he had put it.

Today should be OK though. His friend, what’s-his-name, comes in twice a week just to see that he’s all right. He could be coming today, but Ronald wasn’t sure what day it was. Not what day it was right now, but what day it was that his friend looked in. Although, now he came to think of it he didn’t actually know what day of the week it was right now; so even if he could remember the days that his friend came round, he wouldn’t know whether today was one of them.

Anyway, he was still staring into the larder when he heard the front door bell go. On his third attempt he found the front door and peered through the little spy-hole. As he didn’t recognise the lady standing there he asked who was there. The woman said “Susan” and he asked “Susan who?” and she said “Dad, it’s Susan your daughter” and he let her in.

While she was unpacking the groceries she said he had missed a call earlier when he was in the garage. She then asked what he was doing out there anyway, and he said that he couldn’t find whatever it was that he went out there for and that it wasn’t there last week either. She said never mind, she didn’t know who was calling but they just asked for Ronald. He said “Ronald who?” and she said “Ronald, you Dad, you’re Ronald”, and he said he liked the name and she said yes she had always liked it too.

She said she would put stuff away and make them a nice cup of tea and take it through to the lounge. Several minutes later he found the lounge and sat down. She said “Are you happy Dad?” He smiled and said “I can’t remember”.