Author: Alexander Fawn

There was this old couple who lived in a small cottage deep in the wood.
You know the sort of thing, elderly couple, tiny rundown cottage, poor as church mice, trying to grow their own food in the little vegetable patch out back; time before pensions, before health cover; before just about everything, really. Both dead miserable.
She stormed into his shed, where he spent a lot of time hiding. “We’ve no food,” the old lady complained.
“What, none at all?” he asked.
“Nope, nothing,” she said.
“That’s not good,” he said, showing a modicum of wisdom.
She sighed and shook her head. ‘Well, if you don’t come up with something we’ll both starve,” she scowled, and went back to her kitchen, where she checked all the cupboards again.
He watched her go, picking up his last bottle of beer to finish it off. Absentmindedly, he picked up an old bottle of some sort, and without thinking pulled out a cork that shouldn’t be there. Whoosh! This thingy… some sort of goblin-genie-leprechaun-elf-like creature flew out screaming, “You’ve got three wishes, don’t waste ‘em!” With that, it giggled and shot out through the open door.
Amazed at this, he ran in to tell his wife what had happened.
“Give me a break,” said his wife.
“You don’t think it would work then?”
“Of course not!”
“Ah! What a shame. I’m hungry. I wish I’d asked for a couple of apples, at least.”
Whoosh! On the kitchen table; two apples.
“There you are,” he cried. “I told you.”
Her face went red, and she began shouting. “You came up with two apples when you could have wished for a nice two-story house in a leafy suburb, or more money than we would know what to do with! Instead, you wished for two apples?” With her fists on her hips, she stood glaring at him.
He winced. “I was only trying to show you that it works. You’re so angry, I wish I hadn’t.”
Whoosh! The kitchen table was empty.
When she saw this, she went even redder. Her eyes blazed with fury. She looked as though she was about to explode!

He went back to his shed, whispering, “I wish none of this had happened.” His search for the beer bottle was interrupted when she stormed in, saying, “We’ve no food!”

Whenever he hears a bell, he thinks of time. Whenever he smells a sandwich, he thinks of a break. Whenever he tastes cheese he thinks of his mother. Whenever he sees a brush, he thinks of painting. Whenever he touches a ruler, he thinks of numbers and measuring shapes.
The bell means the start or the end of a lesson. He can eat his sandwich at the long break at lunch time. The taste of cheese is nice and makes him glad his mother hasn’t given him fishpaste. Putting paint on a brush, means art is his favourite subject. A ruler is used when learning about measuring shapes on paper and cutting them out.
Whenever he imagines a room, he thinks of home. His own room at home. Although he’s only five and in year one, he often imagines his room at home is a castle, where he can cut out paper shapes and paint them any colour he likes, where he only eats cheese sandwiches, can have lunch whenever he wants, and where he can dream about the tricycle his parents have promised him when he turns six, which he hopes has a bell.

It thought to itself, butterflies are certainly beautiful.

There are so many different species around the world. It has some memory of being told there are two hundred thousand of them, with some of them actually migrating from cold regions. It thinks, who in their right mind doesn’t like butterflies! For many, they are seen as exquisite creatures of delicate beauty, symbols of hope and rebirth. In some cultures they represent the triumph of the spirit over the physical state. It couldn’t say for sure how old it was, but it knew that a butterfly has a lifespan of only a few weeks. Of course, it knows that they go through this magical stage of metamorphosis from caterpillar, but it missed out on that bit. His transformation was of a different kind.
A sombre mood came over it.
It just wished like hell that it hadn’t been so rude to the old lady with the hooked nose and could go back to being a small boy again.

The machine gave ten years of reliable service before it was shut down.
The team of engineers, three men and two women, who were originally responsible for the installation of the new equipment, had been delighted to receive it from the manufacturer on time. When it was first installed, those engineers at the plant made sure that they had followed the manufacturer’s recommendations with regards to its installation. In truth, that group of engineers tasked with the work of installing the new piece of equipment were enthusiastic about the addition, knowing how much it would improve operations throughout the entire plant. Within the team, it had been a joint effort to develop an ongoing maintenance schedule. When doing this, again they had followed the manufacture’s recommendations.
This schedule covered a list of specific tasks such as regular inspections, ongoing adjustments regarding its operation, planned downtimes for regular services and annual planned shutdowns for major work. These shutdowns were put in place to enable any necessary realignment or in some cases replacement of parts. It also allowed a thorough inspection to detect parts that had become worn or damaged.

When the time came for the decommissioning of the machine ten years later, only three of the original team were still employed at the plant. There could be no doubt that these engineers were reluctant to go along with the decommissioning order. Although they knew, despite a strict adherence to the maintenance schedule over the years, its performance had become less reliable.
There was no denying that the machine had given ten years of reliable service before it was shut down.

She was having a very busy day.
She was loading the washer when she heard the dog scratching to get in. She was too busy for that. He could wait. She didn’t want him getting under her feet. The fresh air would do him good. He spends too much time lounging around in doors. She heard the phone go, yet again. They’d leave a message. She looked across at the pile of ironing and sighed. She was losing track of the things she had to do, but she’d get the washing machine going first. She looked down at the shirt she was holding. A button was missing at the collar. She’d have to put it to one side for later. Then came the tapping on the window…
He was standing outside pointing into the garden.
She froze.
He waved and tapped again. He shouted, “Have a look at this.”
She frowned, wagging her head. “What?”
“Take a look.”
“What is it?”
“Just take a look, it won’t take a second.”
She opened the window. “Look, I’m up to my neck with stuff in here. Just tell me what you want.”
The doorbell went. She’d ignore it. She took a deep breath. “Go on,” she said, feeling her nerves giving way.
“It’s this bird,” he said, “the one I told you about. Its back!”
Confused, she shook her head. “I don’t remember you telling me anything about a bird.”
“Well, I did.”
“OK. OK. Is it important?”
“Yes. It’s this tiny bird with the coloured beak.”
“What sort of bird are you talking about?”
“I don’t know what it is, exactly.”
The doorbell went again. She said, “Anyway, what about it?”
“Well, it’s different. It’s back. I thought you’d be interested.”
“You thought I’d be interested in a bird that you don’t recognise that has a coloured beak?”
“Well… yes.”
“My mother was right,” she shouted and slammed the window.
He went back to the bird.
It was gone…

The café was generally considered by aficionados to be rather posh.
The large and rather ostentatious diamond ring sparkled on the finger of the plump fiftyish woman. She sat, sipping her coffee. The pickpocket approached with a ‘you can certainly trust me’ smile, his eyes fixed on the jewellery.

“I’m sorry to disturb you miss, but could you possibly tell me the time?”
The ring answered, “If you had the idea that you were able to remove me from my mistress’s finger, think again.”
Stunned, but still looking at the ring, he replied, “My apologies, but I seemed to have come out without my watch.”
The ring, now annoyed with the thief’s persistence, said, “You’ll no doubt be aware of the stout walking stick propped against the wall. Let me tell you that should you lay a finger on this finger my good lady will bring the said stick down heavily on your head! Now, be off with you!”
Shaking, he moved on.

It was only a cold, at least she hoped it was only a cold.
Her older brother had been off school for several days; in bed most of the time. From her point of view, it meant that he wasn’t chasing her or being rude or teasing her. These were things he had always done. Maybe all older brothers did those things, she didn’t know. However, she knew all about God and what he could do. She knew about that. For this reason, she hunted through the bottom of his wardrobe when he was fast asleep and found a pair of old shoes with laces.

At the bottom of the garden she stood, blowing up the last of her birthday balloons. It was big, with a swirling pattern of lots of colours. It would be a good present. She tied it off and then attached the lace she had found. Of course, she wouldn’t know how to write a message. It didn’t matter, she felt sure that this would do. She hugged it to her chest and whispered her message.
When she was happy that the lace was attached securely, she let it go. She watched it float up. She stayed there a long time, staring up into a blue sky, as it got smaller and smaller, until it eventually disappeared completely.
She went back in and looked into his room. He was sitting up, awake. She stepped in and said, “How are you?”
He gave her a small wave of appreciation. “I’m feeling a bit better today, thanks kid.”
She went to the window and looked up, smiling.

The tiny creature sat on the edge of the shop’s awning, swinging its little legs to and fro.
There were very few people about and the last of the shoppers were heading off to cars and buses. It had always enjoyed watching the town folk go about their business. Being early evening, with very few lights still on along the shopping parade, there wasn’t much chance of it being spotted. It, and its kind, had always had a bad reputation. The general view was that it was grotesquely ugly, and there maybe some truth in that, and it was thought to be quite evil when it came to humans. This is generally true.
This particular creature had been watching the old tramp across the street. He was sitting with his back against the wall of a building with his cap in front of him. He’d been there all day, asking passers-by for any loose change as they made their way to the nearby bus stop. He hadn’t done well. It continued to watch as a ruffian strolled along sucking on a sweet. He was very rude to the beggar and after kicking his cap he dropped his wrapper in it. Then, seeing his bus, he ran off and jumped on it just before it moved away. The beggar watched the bus go until it was out of sight.
When he looked back down, he found several bank notes of large denominations in his cap. Looking around, he instantly stuffed everything into his pockets, stood up, made his way to the stop and waited for the next bus.
It wasn’t until the lout got home that he found his wallet was empty. Well, not completely. He did find a sweet wrapper.

Goblins are generally malicious toward people.
But not always…

A new world is opening up to him, as the buildings flit by.

The other passengers on the bus have no idea how his future is about to change so radically. She is about to take him on a new journey. One that involves more outings to the cinema, summer holidays away staying in coastal towns and resorts, moonlit evenings sitting on a front porch with his arm wrapped lovingly around her, holding her tight, keeping her safe. He can see their lives together, the future holding so many things for them; a growing family, a long and happy life, and their growing old together…
His reverie is interrupted by the vehicle’s sudden halt. People spill out onto a darkening street and go their ways.
He thinks all this again as he walks home, his head full of thoughts that follow their evening together, their first date…

There are times when protesters get more than just hurt, she knew that.
You would have to say she was something of a dilettante, a bit of a dabbler. She was never very serious about the issues that sparked any given protest, but she really enjoyed the thrill of being part of the pack. She got a high from the noise and fervour of the mob. In short, she found the whole thing a great deal of fun. For her, this protest would be extra exciting. She always found night protests especially exhilarating. It had been dark for some time with only street lamps to show the way forward. There were a least a couple of hundred marchers in the street, all shouting and screaming. Some holding placards, some wielding clubs. It had to be fate, some random sequence of events, that found her at the front of the crowd, behind only one or two of the leaders. Through them, she had a clear view of the row of police officers in their riot gear, spread across the road. The mob was moving forward slowly.

She was looking at the reflections of the street lamps bouncing off the plastic riot shields when she saw the first Molotov cocktail fly over and land at the feet of the police. She hadn’t really expected this. She felt a sudden frisson, a mixture of fear and delight, as she saw two more flaming bottles sail across the night sky. She was looking up at one of these when the bat struck the top of her head. The man in front was swinging it at police. He hardly noticed what had happened. She went down. Within the moving throng, nobody else seemed to notice either, at first. Virtually unconscious, she wasn’t aware of being inadvertently kicked or trampled by those around her. When it was realised that she was on the ground and seemingly out cold, two men carried her through the frenzy to the pavement. One was about to call for an ambulance when he saw that one of the several standby vehicles was coming forward.
By the time the first aid officers had her on a stretcher and were checking her vitals, one of the police officers came forward, making notes and asking if anyone knew her; nobody did. Then, looking closer, he recognised her. She was a regular troublemaker, he thought, she was involved in most of the protests he had attended. Telling the ambulance officers not to let her take off if she came to, he cuffed her wrist to one of the stretcher’s side bars and disappeared back into the noisy fray. They soon had her in the ambulance where they were cleaning up the visible wounds to her arms, hands and forehead, when the first projectile hit the side window. The crowd had come out of nowhere and were pelting the vehicle with anything they could find. The driver shouted to the two attendants in the back to close the doors and hold on tight, as he intended to get the vehicle out of the trouble zone as quickly as possible.
It was then that the first Molotov cocktail hit the windscreen. Unable to see through the blanket of flames, he got out of the cab and ran to the back. He pounded on the doors and shouted that they should get out. The doors swung open and they jumped out. In that moment of panic, the officers couldn’t see a way of getting the patient out quickly, if at all. All three were being hit by flying debris; one of them received a deep cut to the side of his head. Several louts ran at them, pushing them over and kicking them on the ground for no apparent reason. The madness continued as they slammed the doors shut and began rocking the vehicle from side to side. Eventually it tipped onto its side. This was followed by three more bottles striking the crippled vehicle and exploding. At this, with shouts of crazed satisfaction, the group of hooligans ran off.
The ambulance was lying on its side, engulfed in flames, with the sounds of the angry crowds moving away, and the siren of the fire engine growing louder. The medical team, unable to approach the vehicle, because of the heat alone, stood watching helplessly.
Inside, still anchored to the stretcher that was now on top of her, she slowly came around and tried to make out where she was. It was only moments before the petrol tank blew, that with a fuzzy level of consciousness, she tried to remember what the protest was about.