Author: Alexander Fawn

Her daughter had been playing with the things all afternoon.
Thinking that spending so much time doing the same thing was probably not good for her, she went up to her room. She found her sitting on the edge of her bed staring down at half a dozen pebbles lined up on her bedside table. She seemed to be completely oblivious to the fact that her mother was standing in the doorway. This caused her mother an even greater sense of discomfort. She stood and watched for a while, hearing little grunts being made now and then and the occasional glimpse of her lips moving. She knew children could have these strange fads during their early years and she would do her best not to make too much of it.
She coughed, saying, “Honey, are you OK?”
The girl jumped. Blinking a few times and seeing her mother, she stood up, brushing her hair behind her ears. “Yes, mummy, I’m fine, just playing, you know?”
“Yes, of course, dear. I know the weather’s not very nice at the moment, but I thought you might like to come down and watch a bit of television while I iron.”
The girl nodded with enthusiasm. “Yes, OK. I’ll be down in a minute.”
Her mother, feeling a sense of relief, smiled and went back down.
The girl turned back to her bedside table.

The stones had fallen silent. Telepathic communication had been interrupted. She sat waiting patiently, she knew it would come back. Finally, the largest of them, a great, shiny, black pebble, almost an inch across, spoke. Into the girl’s head the words formed, “I’m not happy with your report. You were placed here to find out how our kind are being treated. We have been very patient over an extremely long expanse of time. You don’t seem to have made much progress.” This was followed by a series of grunts of agreement from the others. The girl got up and very politely, said, “I’ll be back.” She left the room and joined her mother downstairs.
That evening she gave the whole thing some really serious thought. She was becoming fed up with the whole business. She decided that they would have to find someone else to send them reports. Knowing that communication was only possible over a short distance, before going to bed that night she spent extra time in the bathroom where she worked out a plan. There was a deep well at the end of the garden that had been covered with a large concrete lid.
There was only a small crack in the lid… but it would do.

There’s a chime in the rhyme,
And a climb in the time.
There’s a can in the van,
And a man in the plan.
A wren in the glen
And a pen in the den.
A tot in the cot,
And a clot in the pot.
A sag in the flag,
And a mag in the bag.
A pun in the son,
And a bun in the nun.
A pin in the bin,
And a fin in the tin.
A frog in the log,
And a dog in the bog.
A peg in the leg,
And an egg in the keg.
A trip in the ship,
And a chip in the dip.
A mop in the slop,
And a cop in the shop.
A gnat in the hat,
And a cat in the vat.
A nurse in the hearse,
And a curse in the verse.

The vacant patch of recently tilled soil in the corner of the garden holds a secret.
Maybe not so much a secret… more of a hidden thing. Lying below, it waits, gathering moisture. It would be the first. It would, although not placed there by the garden’s owner, be the vanguard in this tiny area of prepared earth. Germination would see it sprout. Perhaps, unwanted, or simply unexpected, either way it will push on. The distinction between a weed and a flower plays no part in its growth, only its future. The unknown values of temperature, oxygen and moisture that will enable the ongoing process to take place are also left to destiny.
Meanwhile, the forming of the roots, the stems, the buds and the leaves will herald its eventual form. It will push itself up through the soil to find the sun waiting to give it what it seeks. Warm, lifegiving rays will greet it, and it will eventually break through and stand firm, declaring what it is meant to be.
Although its future is not known… it will undeniably shine with its own natural majesty.

She was normally a very safe driver.
On the night of the accident it really wasn’t her fault. It was dark and raining when the rabbit ran out from the side of the road, causing her to swerve. She slid down the embankment and hit a tree. It took a while for her to come to her senses and look around. All she could think of was the rabbit. She looked around the car, then climbed up the bank and checked the road before she was convinced that she hadn’t hit it. She then began to think of herself and the predicament she was in. She was getting soaked. She tried starting the car, but had no luck. She was forced into going the final mile into town on foot.

It was when she saw the boy from number twelve that had been knocked down and killed in the high street several months ago that the penny dropped.

It’s amazing what people try to get rid of at jumble sales.
The old girl who lives at the back of the disused post office building is forever going around picking up rubbish, looking for some sort of treasure. People who know her, and also know that she’s more than halfway batty, don’t give her any grief. Although her habit of turning up at the local jumble sale with a small folding table and a plastic shopping bag full of trash could be seen as irksome to some under normal circumstances. However, without reproach, she always arrives early, spreads her bits and pieces out and stands waiting for people to enter.
Deep down, she could understand to some degree that her selection of sweet wrappers, pebbles and twigs had never gained much interest, but on the other hand, why the large, red, shiny bottle top had never been snapped up simply baffled her. On this occasion she had brought along a jam jar containing three dried up butter beans and placed it at the front of her goodies.
Before long, a young girl with her mother passed by the little table. Her small eyes lit up when she saw the bottle top.

The old woman said, “Would you like to look at it?”
The girl nodded.
She handed it to her, saying, “If you can guess how many beans are in this jar, you can have it.”
The youngster looked up at her mother, who nodded.
She put the top back down and lifted the jar. She rattled it gently and said, “Three?”
“Wow! Clever girl. It’s yours.”
The girl clapped excitedly and eagerly picked up the bottle top.
The mother smiled and they moved on.
It speaks volumes about the community that the others, those who witnessed the transaction, merely smiled and went back to their business.

He’d made a really good living for more than fifteen years.
Unlike regular members of the workforce, his hours were short and the pay was excellent. He was, of course, a criminal. His modus operandi was one that involved him collecting mail. He never actually knew who he worked for. He didn’t need to know who the Postmaster General was. It was called a blind drop. He would receive his job orders, contracts if you like, in a plain envelope. Inside, just a single piece of paper with a few typed words; the sum on offer, a name, an address, and the action to be taken. This was never spelt out, but a single letter code was used, everything from ‘r’ for ‘rough up’ to ‘k’ for ‘kill’. The whole thing was pretty foolproof. Even the postmaster who received the jobs, only passed them on without knowing their contents.
The location of the blind drop was in an old wooden box with a hinged lid, on a shelf in a rundown shed, in the back garden of a deserted property, set back from the road, along a country lane. Only one envelope at a time. He checked it out weekly. It was just like picking up the mail. In a way he was an old-fashioned kind of guy. After any job, large or small, he’d go home and make himself a nice cup of tea.

On this particular occasion, he entered the shed and found the envelope. A cold shiver ran up his spine when he read it. He was looking at his own name and address, with a ‘k’. He had known all his working life that something like this was always a possibility.
He drove back to his flat, burned the envelope and its contents, picked up his large stash of foreign currency, along with his false passport, took a short bus ride to the airport, caught the first available flight, landed at Brunei International Airport, and took a twenty minute taxi ride to his villa.
As soon as he arrived, he went in and put the kettle on.

She came home after having a truly wonderful evening.

They had started with a dinner at a very expensive restaurant. He was a dream of a date, so polite, so well-mannered. They got along so well. Then, they had seats booked for a show, which they both enjoyed. They seemed to share the same tastes. After the show, the perfect night was rounded off with a light supper in a club he knew. Finally, he drove her home and walked her to her door. He merely kissed her on the cheek and stood watching as she went in. The perfect gentleman…
She could hardly wait to see him again.
She’d start saving straight away.
These guys aren’t cheap!

What’s he like, you ask; don’t bother!
From beggars to kings, he’s seen them all come and go. You can forget all this ‘made in his image’ stuff. Does a broken child prefer to own a broken toy? I don’t think so. Perform miracles? Of course, if anyone can do it, he can! He invented them. The past and the future are all one to him, He’s simply up there doing his thing; scientific paradoxes don’t come into it! Manipulating time and giving life to the inanimate; it’s a cinch. All this stuff’s a doddle for him. Can he create a universe? He can create as many as he likes.

With a slight rotating motion of his finger, he can stir the cosmos, causing galaxies to burst forth and spiral. They swirl out into the darkness. A darkness that he made, anyway. He drops suns and moons off wherever he wants them, not a problem.
He has it all. Having all his Christmases at once?
Forget it, some say he started them too…

It had been a warm day when the young teenager from around the corner called in on the retiree.
It was only a short walk from getting off the bus and his home and he would call in on the way back from school as often as he could. His host lived on his own and was always glad to spend a short time with him. The boy was very keen on English as a class subject. In fact, he’d been producing short pieces from the time he first learnt how to write. He read a lot, mainly classical novels from the local library, but his favourite topic was poetry. The old man he visited spent most of his time writing short stories as a hobby and would only occasionally write poems. As luck would have it, on this occasion the older writer had recently completed a poem. The boy had always been interested in the man’s ideas about how poetry can improve a person’s understanding of a subject.

The boy was sitting in the study, having been given a chilled glass of lemonade, while the man sat across from him, waiting for his first question. The boy always had questions.
“What’s your latest? The schoolboy asked.
“My latest? Funnily enough, I’ve just finished a particularly difficult piece of free verse; not a form of poetry I use very often. That’s probably why I struggled with it.”
The boy brightened at the mention of poetry. “Can I ask what you mean by free verse?”
“Of course. Free verse is a more open form. It doesn’t follow patterns. In fact, it comes across more like everyday speech.”
“Does it still rhyme?”
“Sometimes a poet will include a bit, but not often. Most of the time I write in what can be called true or full rhyme. I feel sure you have read a lot like this. Unlike free verse, it uses rhyming vowel sounds at the end of lines of poetry.”
The boy nodded. “Yes. I’ve read a lot like that.”
The man chuckled. “Yes, well, for me, it’s a lot easier to write.”
Sitting up, the boy said, “OK. So, tell me about your struggle.”
The writer smiled. “I guess it’s all about titles.” He shrugged. “That’s how it started, anyway. Maybe some writers are more concerned with how they label their pieces than others. I’m probably a bit more finicky about it than most.”
The boy nodded in silence for a while.
“Of course, you must follow your own path. You understand that these are just my preferences. You should always feel free to write what you like and in whatever way you like to write it.”
The boy repeated, “Your struggle?”
The man grimaced.
“OK. I suppose you could say that there are times when looking too closely at the difference between one word and another can be a hindrance. Put simply, I was battling with the choice of titles, those being ‘Thoughts’ and ‘Ideas’. My working title was ‘Thoughts’, but somewhere along the way, I had doubts about the true nature of the thing I was writing.” He momentarily closed his eyes, then went on. “At first, after spending a great deal of time writing short, descriptive lines that I wanted to include, I paused to consider the topic. It was at that point that I saw this particular poem was really more about ideas and less about thoughts.”
The boy raised his eyebrows.
“Let me explain,” the other went on, “the word ‘thoughts’ is about the basic mental activity that brings about what one thinks, but the word ‘ideas’ is about what is produced as a result of thinking. Do you see the difference?”
The boy looked blank for a beat or two, before looking at the time. “I think so,” he said, as he got up.
On the way out, he genuinely thanked the old man for the drink and his time, as he always did.
Watching him go the man couldn’t help wondering if during this visit he’d overloaded the boy with ideas. Maybe, talking about his troubles and going into the deeper aspects of putting pen to paper, might not be the best thing.
After all, skipping the learning curve wouldn’t help him. In fact, it could be a hindrance.

The wealthy inventor had the penthouse suite.
Despite him only being in his early twenties his fortune had been made by inventing things that were time-saving devices that were very popular. Unlike those projects that came before, his latest invention was a non-material time transporter that didn’t involve any time cabinet, chair or other apparatus. Provided the time traveller was close to and within the field of the control box at the time of the countdown, travel was possible. When the time came to put the whole thing through its paces, he decided, as a first step, to merely go back fifty years to see what the city looked like. From weather bureau records he chose a day that had been dry with optimum daytime temperatures for comfortably moving around the city on foot.

Unhappily, at the preselected time the high-rise apartment building he was in was in the early stages of construction. As a result, he plummeted two hundred and fifty odd metres into the almost empty construction site. Matters were made worse by the fact that he fell onto and killed a construction worker. The man he killed had been dating the inventor’s mother at the time.
The full outcome of the flow on affects that came about as a direct result of this tear in the delicate fabric of time, were and are, truly unimaginable.