Author: Alexander Fawn

He knows that he is an addict.

Returning once more to his room, he wonders again how much better is this, than being driven by the physical need for substances like alcohol, opioids or any of the great range of hallucinogens? Such things can produce a wide range of altered states of consciousness. One may think that the results from using those stimuli can be, in some way, compered with his own emotional compulsion to capture thoughts and ideas by writing them down. Taking up his usual posture; the chair, the screen the keyboard, the surrounding paraphernalia, with a photo or two, folders in a tray, and a clock that shows the temperature. He looks around and asks himself what it is that pulls him in here?

What emotions, as opposed to physical altered states of consciousness, come into play here? Is there no lesser range of mood, perception and thought being experienced?

He knows only that he is grateful that the force that moves him gives so much pleasure.

It’s a story about love.

The story goes that the woman who arranges flowers and sweeps the floor in the florist shop loves the man who works in the park, tilling soil and planting out flowerbeds, who loves the lady with the frizzy hairdo who smiles a lot in the post office, who loves the woman who sits at the reception desk in her doctor’s surgery, who loves the mechanic who whistles while he services her car, who loves the lady who sells souvenirs at the entrance of the art gallery, who loves the man who advises her about spices in the delicatessen, who loves the girl that works behind the counter at the bakery, who loves the chemist that helps her choose from the medications he stocks, who loves the woman that helps him find books in the library, who loves the man who sells her cakes at the bakery, who loves the woman who works at the fast lane checkout at the supermarket, who loves the man at the café who uses the barista machine to make her coffee, who loves the man that gives him advice when buying things at the DIY shop, who loves the girl who wraps the food at the fish and chip shop, who loves the man who checks her shopping bag at the department store, who loves the girl who sells art materials at the craft shop, who loves the man at the convenience store where she buys her magazines, who loves his wife.

The last time he dropped in, he’d felt the tension between the couple was getting worse.

He found it embarrassing. If the truth be known, although he liked his old school-mate, he couldn’t understand why he hadn’t divorced her within the first year of their marriage. This had been going on for the best part of three years now and he hadn’t found any improvement over the time of his visits. He remembered the conversation, last time he visited; how she had taken him to one side, saying when the arguments happen, she almost loses it. She told him that she gets all sorts of ideas, horrible ideas, in her head. She had gone on about this other world that she lets herself into. This place where everything is coming up roses.

She said she closes her eyes, without him seeing it, of course, and counts very slowly, up to ten, sometimes a lot longer. When she does this, she feels herself just drifting along as if she were walking in a meadow with tall poppies and other colourful flowers that she can touch as she walks through it. She went on to say that it acted like a sort of gasket.

When he asked her what she meant by that, she said that it allows her to interact with him, be at one with him, to enjoy her life with him, without all the pent-up anger spilling over. At the time, he had told her that if this was the way she handled the situation, he could only wish her well with it. This was how it was until the day he had popped in on the way home from work.

He’d been sitting down drinking the coffee she’d cheerfully made for him for a minute or two, before looking around the room and asking, “Where is the man?”

She sighed heavily, saying, “He’s in the bedroom, lying down.”

“Oh? I’ll look in on him.”

She just shrugged and said, “Sure.”

After a few minutes, he came back into the room looking pale. He said, “He’s not breathing!”

“I know.”

“Surely! What about this gasket you told me about?”

“It leaked.”

The man in the pub had a story to tell.

He was badly shaken when he arrived, ordering a double whiskey instead of his normal pint of ale. He was obviously quite traumatised. He was immediately surrounded by the few regulars who knew him, and soon joined by those who didn’t, the moment he began to speak. The man in question had been working on the new high-rise building in the city. His boss had asked him to work overtime, fixing a problem with the building’s air-conditioning system. The lighting up there wasn’t the best for carrying out repairs at night, but it needed to be done in order to run a full system test in the morning.

He’d been on the roof, twenty-five stories up, working on the air extraction unit in question. He said he was crouched down looking at what he was doing, when he heard something on the roof. Looking around, he saw a figure dressed in white clothes standing by the far wall, looking out.

He said he stood up and tried to get the figure’s attention. The first time he called out, he asked what the figure was doing up there. The second time, he told whoever it was, that they really shouldn’t be there at all. Getting no response, leaving what he was doing, he walked across the roof to confront the person. He knew that he would have to be responsible for seeing them safely through the door that led down to the top floor elevator.

As he approached, he could clearly make out the man’s head of dark hair together with his fall-length white robe that went from his shoulders to the ground. It seemed to have a faint glow about it. The figure was just standing there, looking out across the city, but the worker, although not able to explain it, knew that he was actually looking out across the world!

When he arrived at the figure’s side, it turned its head and looked the worker full in the face. He said that at that moment, memories of so many religious pictures he had seen of this man cascaded through his mind.

At first, he was gripped by fear, but within moments of looking into the other’s eyes he felt a calmness sweep over him.

At this point, he seemed to be given the courage to ask the strange figure a question. He asked him if he was anything to do with ‘the second coming’.

In response to this, the man in white winked and disappeared in a puff of smoke!

It goes without saying… nobody believed a word of it!

Sing a song of sixpence,

With birds all flying high.

Four and twenty blackbirds,

Swooping in the sky.

–

As the wind grows stronger,

They circle in a ring.

People on the ground all say,

“Now, there’s a funny thing!”

It would probably turn out to be a chance meeting.

Both he and she were both part of a group of thirty-odd guests. They had all been invited to a private viewing of the artist’s latest paintings. These were about to go on show the following day. It was a fairly grand affair. He was taking a drink from a waiter’s tray, when he saw her. Immediately, he could see that she was an extremely attractive woman and definitely classy. In that moment he began to consider what would be the best way to go about asking her to join him for dinner that evening.

owever, when you consider his bad manners, his lack of common decency, the fact that he is both sarcastic and arrogant, his having a self-centred attitude, his jealous nature and dishonesty, his impulsive behaviour, his being depressingly apathetic about everything, his being a natural born coward, his inability to empathize, his being argumentative, weak-willed, totally irresponsible, generally foolish, together with his being both impatient and lazy…

All this, together with his bad breath and constant flatulence…

Well… he probably shouldn’t bother.

It is only the briefest of moments that run their course.

These are full of seen and unseen things. Amid the noise of scraping chairs and washing up, a scene of three generations plays out. Somewhere, in the corner of the room, an unseen, brightly coloured, plastic toy, continues to play its merry tune. Elderly caretakers strive to capture the joys of youth. Two aerosol cans are shaken. Two dollops of chocolate fudge foam squirt onto a large party plate. There are giggles. A small hand scoops up the larger portion. Brown stains are formed around a young mouth and face.

A woman smiles.

There is nothing sadder than a passed over grandfather!

He must watch the blue checkered leaf twist and flutter as it falls.

This is what the goblin has to do. He must be sure to see where it lands. He has to pick up and keep hold of the leaf. He then needs to gently part leaves and soil and dig down carefully until he finds the small key. He must then look around and look for the oak with the dead, drooping branch. There, he is to snap it off. This will reveal the tiny keyhole. Turning the key will partly open a door in the trunk. He must remove and keep hold of the key. Opening this fully will allow him to see the steps going down. These need to be taken until he finds himself at the beginning of a long corridor. At the very end there is a door. The door is locked. He must use the key to unlock the door and enter the secret chamber…

He cannot do any of this, yet.

He is watching for the blue checkered leaf to fall…

He lay in bed thinking about how he had hidden things from her.

He could hear her in the kitchen preparing breakfast. They had only been married a couple of weeks and the fact that he was deeply in love with her meant that it was becoming harder and harder to keep secrets from her. These were things that she really should know. He began to list them in his mind; he had five secrets. The first went way back to the time he poisoned a neighbour’s dog. The woman across the road all but accused him of doing it. She got the police involved, but nothing came of it. Second, the was the money he was taking from the till on a regular basis, only small amounts. The owner of the shop and his employer suspected him, but again, nothing could be proved. He’d decided to leave, before things got more serious.

He rolled over and thought about the third. That was a hit and run, with the couple in the car he crashed into being badly injured. He’d found out later that he’d only received minor injuries, while she had ongoing physical problems, probably for life. Of course, it was an accident, but he should have stopped and not taken off the way he did. The fourth thing hidden was the night he shot and killed the drug dealer in the carpark. He didn’t care to think about that one too much, he’d come much too close to being found out.

Then, there is the more recent, fifth secret. He wanted to dwell on that even less. He had not told her about his medical condition or his recent visit to the doctor when it was confirmed that his brain tumour was inoperable.

She’d be telling him breakfast was ready soon.

He thought, I really should tell her something…

Is my muse here today?

You do not need her,

I hear you say.

But I need her come what may,

No stories form when she’s away.

–

Could you, would you, write one on a bus?

No, I couldn’t, too much fuss.

–

Could you write one in a canoe?

No, too much paddling would never do.

–

Could you write one at a fair?

No, I couldn’t stand the glare.

Could you write one on a plane?

No, the cost would be a drain.

–

Look, not on a bus or in a canoe.

Not at a fair or in a plane.

I need my muse back again!