Author: Alexander Fawn

Mitch was a bully. He had always been a bully. They were in the playground now arguing. As he brought his fist down towards the little girl’s face, something happened. He didn’t know what, but something had certainly happened…

On the other side of the playground the visitor smiled. He looked around. He liked it here. He was a traveller, but he occasionally came across a place that looked interesting. A place that seemed to have so much potential, like this one. When that happened he would hang around awhile. He loved watching the kids; looking on, unseen.

School had just got out. It was a large school, and a huge, bustling mass of bodies came teeming out onto the front footpath. Most of the kids were running, laughing, shouting to each other, swinging their bags around. Some made their way to the bus stop while others went over to the park to carry on playing and taking the opportunity to catch up with friends from other classes they hadn’t seen all day.

They left a commotion behind them in a far corner of the playground, where a teacher was bent over the body of a small boy. He was looking around frantically as he spoke into his mobile. Another teacher stood back a little, comforting a small girl who just couldn’t stop sobbing. Yes. He loved watching them.

Mitch found himself sprawled on a hot, gravely floor. He opened his eyes to the dark and blinked. He was faintly aware of a figure nearby, but couldn’t make it out. The only source of light came from the horizon; a great orange glow with flames licking up into a black sky. There was a horrible stench in the place but he didn’t recognise it. The figure moved a little closer but said nothing. Its empty eye sockets seemed to pick up the light and emitted a faint glimmer.

Mitch suddenly recognised the Reaper for what he was. Even at his tender age he knew that he had been taken. He had been brought down into the terrible depths of Hell. He knew that he was now about to be cast into the great, fiery, bottomless pit. It was Mitch’s turn to sob.

Later, in the lab, two men stood by the metal table looking at Mitch’s sad little body.

The inspector slowly shook his head. “I just don’t get it.” He looked up at the man washing his hands. “This doesn’t make sense to me. How could this happen?”

“It does. Oh yes, cases of kids around seven and eight suffering a sudden heart attack. Of course, it is by no means common, but it does happen.”

The inspector scratched his neck. “Yes, but six in only two weeks?”

A poet once wrote about the lives of clouds;

From their lifeless point of view.

And are such notions merely illusory?

Can these feelings ever be true?

–

He thought that clouds watched men come and go on Earth;

Floating there, they watch the moon and seas.

Can it be that such things, quite inanimate,

Interact in such ways as they please?

–

Does a paperweight become neurotic when it’s weighing nothing down?

Does a guitar cringe when it is out of tune, does it really know?

Does a damp towel consider it has been abused, when left in a heap on the floor?

It all seems quite capricious, how far do these ideas go?

–

When scissors are closed in a silent room, do they whisper to themselves?

Can a snow-globe get dizzy when shaken again and again?

Does the forgotten doll on a dusty shelf pine for those long gone hugs?

Does a loosened rock quake with the sound of the coming rain?

–

Does a staple remover ever tire of its use, of continually undoing the done?

Does the bursting balloon know in that instant that all past admiration is blown?

Does a doorknob ever get giddy, being twisted back and forth?

Do steps become proud of their age, with worn dips shaping their stone?

–

Does a sleeping pill ever feel sad that it has to be used at all?

Can the horse on a Merry-Go-Round ever feel the centrifugal force?

Does a toothbrush quietly wince and groan when teeth are brushed too hard?

Does an apple left to rot in the grass ever feel remorse?

–

Does a notepad ever wonder what will be written next?

Does the silver dome of a cooking pot really hate the heat?

Does a toothpick feel unfulfilled when it breaks while doing its job?

Can a bed really blush when a child wets its sheet?

–

Does a cup ever have a preference about being filled with coffee or tea?

Does a fridge ever feel bilious when food has gone off in there?

Does an alarm clock ever get angry when its owner goes back to sleep?

Does a chess-piece sigh with annoyance when placed on a threatened square?

–

Such fanciful ideas are only born by those conjuring with pen and wit.

A nonsense, yes; but for a poet, this may well be the fashion.

Placing such feelings, where they are rarely seen to fit,

Imbues nonsense with a passion.

She found him in the living room immersed in the Sunday paper.

She stood in the doorway for a while. He pretended not to notice. He knew what she was about to say and was secretly enjoying the moment. He looked up. “Did you want something Honey?”

She bobbed her head around and said “You know what next week is, don’t you?”

He frowned and said “Next week? Let me think; local elections? No that’s too soon thank the Lord.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

“Oh! Come on. Stop playing around. You know it’s Christmas.”

“Oh! Really?”

“Yes really. What do you want?”

He took on a painful grimace and she sighed. “It’s always the same, I never know what to get you; and you don’t exactly help.”

He shook his head smiling. “Not this time Honey, I’ve got a list.”

“You’ve got a list! I don’t believe it.”

He sniggered and dug into his back pocket bringing out a folded sheet of paper.

Impressed, she sat down attentively, saying “OK. Let’s hear it.”

Unfolding it carefully he cleared his throat and read.

“I want the dog across the road to stop barking at night.”

“I want the government to bring in a two day week.”

“I want someone in authority to explain simply what superannuation is.”

“I want all of the parking meters in town ripped out.”

“I want Jim Bromley brought back from the dead so he can repay the 163 dollars he owes me.”

“I want to be several years younger.”

“I want politicians to stop telling lies.”

“I want everybody in the world to have one square meal a day.”

“I want to live forever.”

“I want all the governments in the world to ban wars, either that or a new pair of slippers.”

She started “Well, I’m not sure about…”

He interrupted her. “No. Don’t tell me anything. Surprise me!”

John was in a pensive mood.

Despite the chill in the air, he stood gazing up at the moon. As he did, the thought suddenly struck him that he was looking at the very same moon that Antonio Vivaldi had looked at. He shivered with the full realisation of this unavoidable truth. In fact, so struck was he, that it caused him to turn and see the man, the composer, Vivaldi, standing next to him. He was dressed in a manner to be expected, plus a wig. He too was staring up into the heavens.

Vivaldi didn’t seem to notice him at first, then said “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It is, but I’m not sure you should be here.”

Vivaldi smiled and said in a soft voice “Ah! The imagination is a powerful thing.” He turned and said “I don’t have to stay.”

“No! Please… stay. I have to tell you… it sounds pretty weak, but I am a great fan of your music… all of your music.”

“That’s nice. I would certainly like to think I had fans.”

Suddenly, confused, John said “Hold on; I just used the word fan, and you understood it!”

“Of course.”

“Why of course? You were composing the Four Seasons in 1725, while the word fan, being an abbreviation of fanatic, wasn’t thought of until, I don’t know, the late eighteen hundreds probably.

“Your point?”

“My point is you could not possibly know about it.”

“Ah! I see what you are getting at. I think there must be a lot you don’t understand about summoning.”

“Summoning?”

“Oh! Yes; that’s what you did you see. You summoned me.”

John reflected on this statement, then asked “Does this sort of thing happen very often?”

“No, not really. Not to me anyway. Twice before, or maybe three times, it nearly happened, but the person trying to summon me just didn’t get it right I suppose.”

“How does it all work?”

“I’m not sure really. I have full memories of my lifetime and a natural understanding of this present time; such as the date, your clothes and mode of speech, and so on, but…” he paused, shaking his head.

“But?”

“But there’s nothing in between.”

“Wow! In that case, there is so much to tell you. I mean, I’m no scholar, not at all, but I’ve always been interested in classical music, even as a kid. What do you want to know?”

Vivaldi chuckled. “If only it were that simple… there’s the time factor.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, my time here is limited.”

“Oh! How long have we got?”

“I don’t know, sorry. Not long though.” He looked back at the sky and said “Do you want to tell me what’s been going on or ask me questions?”

John shook his head. “I wouldn’t know where to start, you’d know all about the renaissance period of course.”

“Yes, an important time that preceded me.”

“Well, your era was later named the Baroque Period.”

Vivaldi smiled. “Baroque Period, I like that!”

John was pleased to be able to give him something; something in return for being here. “It lasted for well over a century.” He stopped abruptly and waved his hand around. “How long have we got? Oh! Sorry, you don’t know do you? But are we talking about minutes, hours, days?

Vivaldi shook his head. “Minutes perhaps.”

John went on, feeling more than a little silly. “The harpsichord certainly came into its own during your life-time. But listen, all this is recorded, we don’t need to go over that. Tell me what you didn’t like about your life, after all you were very successful as a composer and you worked as a priest… The Red Priest in fact; because of your hair.”

Vivaldi lifted his wig for a moment.

“Can’t see, sorry, too dark. I’ll take your word for it. Anyway, I’m pretty sure all the references to it can’t be wrong.” He sighed. “There is so much to say and ask. But like I said, what didn’t you like about it all.”

“Ah! That’s easy. Asthma. That’s what you call it now, but back then it was simply known as a ‘tightness of the chest’. It actually prevented me from being able to chant; it was with me from the day I was born.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know. Do we, I mean we of this time, know about that?”

“Yes. It seems that some of your historians have made mention of it.”

“I did notice that your voice was changing…wheezing a bit.”

“Yes. The cold. Always brings it on for me; it’s my main trigger, you would say. It’s probably best if I leave you now. Nice talking to you John.”

“You know my name then?”

“Of course; I know all about you… you summoned me.”

“Oh! OK. How does it work then; the opposite of summoning I mean.”

“Well, let’s just gaze up at the moon together.”

As they did this, John heard Vivaldi cough… and he was gone.

The doorbell went and Mrs Johnson went through the hall to answer it.

A man in a suit and tie, holding a briefcase, stood on the step.

She frowned. “Can I help you?”

“Hello. Yes, my name is Unsworth, Colin Unsworth from the Trowbridge Insurance Society. I’m here to meet Tony, your husband I presume.”

“Oh! Yes, of course. Sorry, John did say you were calling, I think you’re a little early?” He nodded. “Please come in. It’s a dreadful night.”

“Thank you” he stepped in saying “Yes, dreadful. It’s a lot warmer in here,” he smiled.

She looked at her watch. ‘Look it’s a bit awkward’ she said. “He really can’t be disturbed at the moment. He won’t be free for at least a quarter of an hour, would rather come back, or just call him and make another appointment?”

“Well, to be honest, I don’t live in this part of town and this is my last call for the day, so, if it’s OK I’ll just wait.”

“That’s fine then” she ushered him to a chair. “Now, if you don’t mind sitting here, he shouldn’t be too long. I do have things to do. Is it OK if I leave you?”

He smiled “Yes, that’s fine, thanks.”

The lady of the house disappeared through a far doorway.

The salesman put his case down between his feet and after glancing at his own watch, settled down for a wait.

He could hear murmuring coming through the closed door alongside of him, catching the odd word from time to time. After a minute or two his found himself becoming engrossed in the conversation and carefully moved his chair a little closer.

In the room, Tony looked down at the owl.

“You know, nobody would believe that this conversation could possibly take place.”

The owl looked up “Of course I know that. Anyway, what did you want to talk about? It’s getting dark, and there are things I would rather be doing.”

“Oh! Yes, of course. You catch and eat mice I believe?”

The owl twitched and shook its head. “Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I am not at all sure what I am doing here. Further, I don’t know how it has come about that we are actually talking to each other.” It opened its wings slightly and ruffled them. The man said “Fair enough, you’ve done very well this time.” and gave a chuckle. Moments later the salesman could hear things being moved around.

He sat up with a jerk as the woman appeared looking down at her watch. He was rather embarrassed, but pretty sure she hadn’t seen him leaning into the door.

She came forward smiling. “Sorry you had to wait, and I’m sure you think me very ill-mannered, I didn’t offer you a cup of tea or anything.”

He shook his head. “No. That’s OK.”

“Alright then, he should be out in a couple of minutes.”

As she turned to go, he coughed politely, “Before you go, I was rather curious. Is your husband a doctor?”

She laughed. “No, whatever made you think that?”

“Well, no I don’t suppose…”

She could see he was feeling awkward. As she left the hall she laughed again and said. ‘He obviously didn’t tell you, he’s a ventriloquist.”

The evening was warm.

He found a nice spot in the dunes where they could lay down and stare up into the darkening sky. This had always been a favourite spot for them. He didn’t know how many years they had been doing it. Too many to remember.

They lay chatting and laughing in low whispers. The sky was completely black now, with a million pin points of light to look at. The wash of nearby waves were a background to the array of stars. Hours passed off into the night.

Finally, the light-hearted mood changed abruptly when she turned her head. “Do you ever think about death?”

“No, not really” he replied. The subject took him by surprise. “I guess I don’t really want to think about it.”

“You should.”

“Should I?”

“Yes, but it’s OK. I understand.”

Tears welled up in his eyes. He felt foolish. He brushed them away and gave an insane giggle as he did it.

“You’re laughing?”

“Yes, sorry.”

“But why? What is it?”

“I just can’t believe you’re gone.”

 

 

Christmas is in many a place,

In the country and the town.

It’s found up and down the street:

On the highway and on the down.

–

It’s Christmas in a mansion.

It’s Christmas on the farm.

It’s Christmas in a workplace.

To each it spreads its charm.

–

It’s Christmas in a cottage.

It’s Christmas when you fly.

It’s Christmas in a child’s bedroom,

On that you can rely.

–

It’s Christmas for a beggar.

It’s Christmas for a king

It’s Christmas for both young and old.

It’s always a special thing.

–

It’s Christmas in the sweltering heat.

It’s Christmas in the snow.

It started in a stable,

A long, long time ago.

–

It’s Christmas on the hillside.

It’s Christmas in the wood.

It’s Christmas in the charity house,

Serving the common good.

–

It’s Christmas in Canada.

It’s Christmas in Japan.

It’s Christmas in Bethlehem;

Where it all began.

–

Christmas comes in a card or a gift;

In music, verse and art.

But the very best Christmas of them all…

Is the Christmas in the heart!

The room was dark, with only a soft glow coming from the bed.

Daisy was reading her book under the bed covers with a tiny torch. Her mother didn’t like her reading this late, and this was the only way she could manage it. It was very hard not to keep reading as the characters and the stories were so good.

She felt her eyelids getting heavy. She stopped reading for a moment and wondered what would happen if…

…it was a beautiful sunny day.

There were brightly coloured flowers everywhere. It was an idyllic pastoral scene, but somehow more than a little unreal. To tell the truth, the whole place looked as though it had come straight out of some child’s picture book.

The only people to be seen didn’t help either. They were certainly an incongruous group. Had anybody been there to see it, not that there was any nobody else around, it would have been seen as a very strange little gathering.

They all sat round a large wooden table, and to add to the oddness of it all, they all appeared to be half asleep.

Heads were nodding, eyes were barely half open and the man would snore gently from time to time. He was rather well dressed in a business suit, with one arm resting on a large leather bag that looked very expensive. The other five sitting there were much younger, in fact they were all children; three boys and two girls.

One of the girls had a long, wooden stick with a hook on the end, lying on the ground behind her, while the other had her hands cupped around a bowl.

The boys didn’t seem to have anything other than themselves, except one did seem to be holding something, this small object was also made of leather. He was the first to wake up. “I don’t have a penny to my name!” he said, looking at his purse, breaking the silence and causing the others to stir and slowly open their eyes.

The all sat looking around in bewilderment.

The man spoke. “My trousers are wet! How did any of us get here? I’m a doctor and I’m sure I have house calls to make”.

One of the other boys said “I’m not sure who I am but I have jam on my hands!” He went back to licking his fingers.

The third boy piped up with “I’m very good at jumping”. He had taken off his shoe and was looking at his sock. “Although, I think I’ve burnt my sock!”

The girl with the bowl giggled. He turned to her and said “Why are you holding that, it’s empty?”

She stopped laughing and looked down at it. “I’m not really sure, but I’m quite certain it tasted very nice”.

The final one to speak was the other girl. She had been sitting quietly, looking as though she would burst into tears at any moment. They all stared at her, waiting for her to speak. “I’ve lost something and I’m probably going to get into a lot of trouble”. She took out a handkerchief and began to sob.

“I think I can help… if you don’t mind”. The voice seemed to come from nowhere.

Slowly the image formed. Daisy was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the table. She stood up and looked around at all there amazed faces. “I’m sure I can” she went on. With that she jumped down from the table and started to walk around them in a wide circle. One by one there heads turned, waiting to hear what she had to say.

“Grown-ups first, that’s the rule isn’t it? You are Doctor Foster, it was raining in Gloucester when you went there and you didn’t watch out for puddles”. She shook her head, as if she were telling him off; pretending to be a grown-up herself.

She moved on. “Hello Jack. I know you, you’re Jack Horner, and you’ve been eating Christmas pie!”

She next laid her hand on the shoulder of the girl holding a bowl. “And you Miss Muffet; you’d still be eating, if spiders didn’t bother you so much”. She patted her shoulder to console her, then added in a very grown-up voice, “I don’t like them either”, and moved on again.

“Jack, you really must be more care when you jump over candlesticks!” she told the boy holding his sock. “But you are a very good jumper”. She smiled and gave him a friendly nod.

“As for you Simple Simon” she said, as she went round a little further, “You really shouldn’t expect to be sold a pie when you have no money!”

She came now to the final person at the table, one of her favourite characters. She had always felt very sorry for her and had so often wanted to make her feel better.

“And you are Bo-peep. It’s your sheep you’ve lost, but you shouldn’t worry you know… you shouldn’t worry…”

Daisy’s mother crept into the room leaving the door open a little. She made her way to the bed in the half light and pulled back the covers. “Oh! Not again!” she whispered, and smiled.

The girl’s eyes opened and looked up. “Mummy, what do you think would happen if… if…” the eyes closed again.

The mother switched off the little torch and pulled up the covers. She took the book of nursery rhymes and stood for a moment, running her fingers across its pages. It was an old book now, dog-eared with fading colors that had once belonged to her. She smiled again as she closed it very softly.

Who would have thought that a particle could have a mind of its own?

This particle was aware that there had never been a proper name for itself. It was, after all, a tiny piece of something. It was a body having a finite mass. It was an extremely small constituent of matter. You really had to be aware of the existence of a thing before trying to come up with a name for it. Although not being completely accurate, the word particle seemed to do well enough.

It had never become apparent to the Earth-dwellers that particles actually had a thought process, indeed one that never stopped running. Like the thought processes, particles simply don’t just stop being particles. Someone came up with the idea concerning the conservation of energy. Well, they got that right. It had recently learned, and one can only imagine how, that something called the God Particle was all the buzz in the world of science. Of course, the particle had no sense of humour; if it did, it would laugh.

This particular particle felt it self rather fortunate, it had travelled widely. Some particles hardly moved at all. Some lay buried deep in the earth, part of a coffin or a tree root or clinging to a stone. Hey! Who could tell? There had never been a lot of communication between particles, but there was some.

This particle had been fascinated to learn about one of its kind being intravenously injected into, and then travelling through, the body of a woman. It had been carried to the brain stem where it sadly observed the loss of her involuntary functions, resulting in her demise. Luckily, not wishing to spend a long and uncertain period of enforced hibernation underground, that particular particle had managed to find itself on a tissue sample, removed during the autopsy.

At this point, our particle… it can now be referred to as our particle, since enough has been revealed about its very existence for the term to be used with a sense of familial comfort… our particle had been soaking up the late afternoon’s sun of a summer’s day, on a cheese and pickle roll, on a paper plate, on a café table, in a small country town, a little south-west of… well, a little south-west of somewhere.

Our particle is about to be eaten by a girl who has never liked the food they serve up in either airports or on the planes that fly in and out of them. She has left the nearby dress shop where she works early today, and is about to join her friend in a taxi. She has been saving up for ages to go on holiday with her girlfriend.

Our particle waits anxiously, whether or not giving such an emotional attribute is reasonable, it does however find itself nestling between the atoms that once made up the flesh of an apple that has since been chopped and mixed with other ingredients that now form the relish that is spread across the slices of tasty vintage cheese being held in the remaining portion of two buttered halves of a crusty sesame seed roll.

She looks up as the taxi honks and her friend opens the window and waves excitedly. She stands, gathers her belongings along with her suitcase and pauses momentarily, looking down at the remainder of her food. She takes a moment to pop the remaining piece of roll into her mouth and runs to the waiting vehicle.

Yay! The particle is on its way to Majorca!

“Enlightenment can be a thing of great beauty” the man said. “When natural science can become the norm and thrive in an environment where people let go of religion and dogma”, he paused and fingered the book he held. He looked up at his visitor with a smile and went on. “When the authorities are seen to be working for the people and the people in turn start to think for themselves.” He swung in his chair and looked out of the window.

He admired the spacious courtyard below and the fringe of green treetops in the distance for a few moments before turning back to the visiting professor.

“We, of course, are mostly concerned with physics. We both know that the whole thrust of physics is to discover truths about the nature of the physical universe, with nothing assumed or presupposed. Everything we see now and discover later has to be based on irrefutable evidence. It is true that occasionally our personal views or considerations may unduly influence our choice of a particular theory, but in the final analysis…” his voice dropped off as he studied the shapes of the shadows spreading across the great area below.

The visitor coughed softly to bring his friend back. “I agree, there is certainly a much greater uunderstanding of our work thanks largely to your brother…” The man bit his tongue as he realised what he had said. “I’m so sorry! I can’t imagine what made me say that. I… I…”

The physicist raised his hand, “Don’t apologise my old friend. He was a talented journalist with a very persuasive style of reporting. My brother is at peace now. The thing is done and that’s that.”

The visitor relaxed. “I’m sure you must be feeling a great sorrow….”

“Not at all! No; not a bit of it.” replied the other. “Don’t you bother yourself in that regard. As I said; he’s at peace at last.”

The men sat in complete silence for a while, until the visit was interrupted by approaching footsteps and a rattle of key at the door of the cell that announced the arrival of the priest, bible in hand, ready to administer the man his last rights.