Author: Alexander Fawn

The woman who lived alone at number thirty-four was a nasty piece of work.

She had caused so much trouble and bad feeling in the street for several years. Gossip, particularly vicious gossip, was what she liked to spread. It was a wonder that anybody ever listened to her prattle on, but they did. That was the trouble. Once they had started, the rumours just grew. The woman who lived at number fifty-seven with her family in the same street, had often had bad thoughts about her. Of late, they seemed to be getting worse, and louder. Yes, louder, she thought. They were voices now, or maybe several voices, it was hard to tell. They would tell her to do things that she was sure she would ordinarily not even consider thinking about.

The real trouble began one afternoon coming back from the shops, she noted that the woman’s car was not in the carport. She paused, looking at the concrete lion that was mounted on one of the gate columns. It wasn’t cemented in place and she considered pushing it off. She went to move on when a voice said, ‘Go on, do it.’ So, she did. It went with a crash, but didn’t raise any attention. She hurried home.

She had trouble coming to terms with the fact that she’d actually done it, but at the same time was really surprised by how good it made her feel. Of course, she made no mention of it. Nothing seemed to come of it, and the statue wasn’t replaced. The next thing that happened, quite late in the evening, after her children had gone to bed, the voice, probably the same, was suggesting she take the can of weedkiller from the shed and pour the contents over the woman’s front flower bed. At first she was shocked that it had entered her head, but the voice became more and more insistent. Finally, telling her husband that she needed to sort items for recycling, she went out and did exactly what had been suggested. She had found the experience gave her such a wonderful thrill.

It was well over a week later, when the flowers were all dyeing nicely, that she heard the voice again. It was the same voice, she was sure of that now. However, this time it was really troubling. It was the desire to burn the woman’s house down! This thought was completely preposterous and she could never do such a thing. But, as before, over a number of days the voice became more commanding and the idea more appealing. The voice had told her several times how it should be done… in the early hours, petrol used for the mower, where to splash it, how to arrange the quickest getaway, everything.

So it came to pass that, in the middle of the night, the sound of sirens sounded in her street. Many of her neighbours came out, some in their dressing gowns, to watch the firemen try to get the blaze under control. However, the fire was so widespread that this was going to prove impossible. The best they could do was stop it from spreading to the nearby properties. The woman that owned the house had suffered badly from smoke inhalation and was taken away by ambulance.

It was well over a month later, when the affair had died down, that the voice returned. Over the weeks that she’d heard nothing, she felt a strange sense of loss creep in. She was almost asleep when she heard it. She slid gently out of bed so as not to wake her husband. Silently, she went through to the lounge where she settled into her armchair. It seemed to her that the voice knew what she was doing, being prepared to wait for the right time to talk. She sat listening carefully as the voice introduced itself as Beelzebub. It said how pleased it was with what she had done so far. It explained that this was only the very beginning and how it would be. It stated that there were far greater, more exciting, and much more important things that lay ahead for her.

When it had finished, she felt very tired. She returned to her bed soundlessly. She lay for a while considering the thrill of it all. Then, she turned over and went back to sleep.

He knows they are keeping him safe here.

His walls are white. Nothing on them. He likes them that way. He has vague memories of being in rooms with cluttered walls. Messy bric-a-brac signifying nothing. There is no visible pollution in his place. Just a beautiful whiteness surrounding him, keeping him safe. Allowing him to dwell on what is truly significant. In this place, what he sees and what he hears is safe. Here he has only significant sounds. Those that burgeon with meaning. None of those he has left behind. He has never been disturbed by traffic sounds. There has been no honking or squealing tyres or revving engines. He has no idea where his room is, within the building. He cannot remember the start of it. He may have been sedated the day they brought him in.

His head turns slightly to better his listening. He can hear them now; those significant noises. Sounds that would mean nothing to many. The rhythms of footfall. The feet that pass, just beyond his door. Sometimes clicking, sometimes thudding. The steps of men and women. Different sounds, different shoes. He knows them all. He also knows that with the sounds, and with the moments that pass, there is a great renewal of things, with everything changing with each moment. He loves the sounds; they are of great comfort to him.

He knows that these things would not be noticed, would have no significance for those who dwell on the outside. Such things would be considered mundane and without meaning to them. They would be irrelevant and unnoticed within their realms of random cacophony. It is a manmade complex and busy world, created by those who live in it. Those who have been conditioned since birth to accept, to ignore, and to allow the corruption of it all. He knows he no longer has to tolerate the incessant contamination that runs riot in that other place.

He knows they are keeping him safe here.

She had always wanted to take flying lessons.

She went on and on about it. She said that if she didn’t at least give it a go, she would always regret it. So, after a long period of saving up, he saw it as his chance to give her what she wanted. Of course, she was thrilled when he told her. They went to the flying school together to make the booking. When the day came for her first lessen he walked around the small aeroplane, while she filled out all of the necessary forms in the office.

Finally, they emerged and he watched as they made their way to the plane. He stood looking on with a sense of excitement as they began to taxi. He managed to get in a quick wave just before they lifted off.

Five minutes later, the engine fell silent and it began to fall out of the sky. When it hit the ground it exploded, sending up a huge fire ball followed by a cloud of black smoke.

Unseen, he allowed himself a brief smile, before laying on the dramatics big time for the police and the newspaper reporters.

His only regret was about the pilot… He thought he was nice.

It was an unexpected complimentary ticket for a show.

It arrived in her mail with nothing to indicate who had sent it. She was intrigued as it was a performance put on with marionettes; a puppet show. She hadn’t been to one of these since she was a child. She decided to go. Her latest book was doing well and she had hardly started on her research notes for the next one. As a bestselling author, she had done very well out of debunking black magic and its practitioners. As a result of her diligent research she knew as much about the craft of the mystics as they did themselves. She was an expert regarding their rituals and ceremonies, their incantations and spells. Not that any of it was worth a fig. She’d been exposing all such mumbo jumbo long enough to know just how worthless it all was. Nevertheless, it had provided her with a very good living. She checked her busy calendar. Yes, she should take a break.

On the night, the theatre was full. This was obviously a very popular show. She was enjoying the experience of revisiting an art form not seen for so long. It was during the final act that it happened. Quite suddenly she became aware of the puppets hand movements. They were very precise, and as far as she could tell they had been made several times. They were slow, specifically performed motions. The fact was, she recognised them. She was sure that these were hand movements used to cast a spell. It bothered her that she couldn’t remember what the spell was for, but it was a spell.

She looked up into the curtained darkness above the stage. She knew that somewhere above, hands would be manipulating the strings. Twisting and jerking the cross bar, skilfully pulling strings and deliberately causing the puppet, now standing forward on centre stage, to make these carefully chosen movements. She’d seen diagrams of such hand actions a number of times when researching this kind of spell casting. It was annoying that she couldn’t bring details of it to mind. She planned to look it up when she got home. After all, there may be something of a story in it.

That plan, along with any others that she had regarding her future, changed radically that night.

Her recently published book would be her last, and thanking the girl who had directed her to her seat was the very last thing she would ever say.

Showing footprints, making castles,

Filling play pits, bonding walls.

It lines the shore,

And so much more,

It through an hour glass falls.

What movement is there between each grain?

How many, one against the other move?

What location does each one retain?

Such knowledge hard to prove.

–

And being sober, do we know it all?

For this, no case is mounted.

It is part of the great unknowable,

That the grains cannot be counted.

He had been taking his nightly walks through the woods at the back of the house for years.

No matter what time of year, he hardly ever missed. Just a fifteen minute stroll through the dark trees was enough to set him up for a good night’s sleep. In fact, it was because of the countless number of times he had done it, that it made the incident so remarkable. The moon was partly formed on the night and he had paused briefly to find it through the canopy of trees. It was during these few silent and inactive moments that the thing ran past. In the poor light he was just able to make the creature out. It was a hedgehog. Although there was nothing remarkable about that, it was running upright on its hind legs!

It was because of this curious fact that he decided to follow it rather deeper into the wood than usual. For what seemed like the best part of an hour he made his way forward as quietly as possible until he came to the edge of a large hollow. He could hear voices. Looking down into it he could see hundreds of hedgehogs, all standing upright, and all facing a small central group that seemed to be in charge.

It was a meeting, and once he had got over the fact that they were all capable of speech, he began to listen. It soon became obvious that these creatures were planning a major revolt with the soul intention of taking over. Listening to the ideas being voiced, it was obvious that they were dissatisfied with the way humans were running things and felt they could do a far better job of it. The meeting seemed to go on forever, with all present expressing the idea that the takeover should begin as soon as possible.

Finally, with hoots of “Bravo” and “Onward”, the animals dispersed, scampering off in all directions. Some coming uncomfortably close to where he was crouched.

When they were all gone, he laid thinking about the consequences of what he had heard.

Then, a shocking thought came to him.

Who’s he going to tell?

She was standing in front of her full-length mirror.

She’d been trying clothes on for nearly an hour. She took out another pair of slacks. Pulling them on, she knew there was no way of zipping them up to the waist. She struggled out of them and threw them onto the bed, with the others. It was the same with the blouses she had tried. Nothing from last year fitted her. Even the lovely suede jacket she’d bought in Spain was too tight. She looked at the pathetic pile of unwearable clothes she’d tossed across the room. Something would have to be done. It was time to get tough with herself. All those delicious high calorie comfort foods would have to go.

She had read about the latest diet that was supposed to be a game-changer. She would start tomorrow. This time she would make it work. Self-discipline, that was it; that was the answer. No more half measures. She turned to face the mirror. She looked at her reflection and told herself that she was about to turn over a new leaf. As she stood looking at herself, face to face, she saw one eyebrow lift.

It was strange that she couldn’t feel it.

Spooky!

He wanted to watch the original version of the film and time travel was the only way to do it.

He had fond memories of watching the original, but copies were hard to find. Because he was a trillionaire, he wanted to more than just sit and watch it, but would like to do it in the old cinema that has long since been knocked down. The Temporal Corporation could provide what he wanted, but at the enormous cost of 2.5 million. The movie buff was happy to pay for the delight of reliving the drama of the original. He climbed into the chair and was transported almost immediately to a front row seat in the old theatre. With building excitement he waited for the curtains to open.

Sometime later he was back in the chair in the Temporal Corporation’s travel room. Several people were gathered there, waiting for his arrival.

The head of department came forward. “How did it go?”

The man grimaced. “Disappointed… I prefer the remake!”

“We do apologise,” said the corporation man, “you have spent a great deal of money with our corporation and the results were not to your satisfaction.”

He waved them away, because he couldn’t care less. He’d watch the 2043 version.

This is just one of the advantages of being filthy rich…

It would never leave her; never go away.

She wasn’t even from that country, just a visitor. Just someone passing through. Nothing else. At a distance, safely peering through an office window, she watched. Now she carries the images with her wherever she goes. They are always there. It is her own private hell. So many sleepless nights. So many abrupt wakenings. She never speaks of it. Why would she want to describe the events of that day, or discuss the rights or the wrongs of it?

Despite any human failings these people had succumbed to, each of them were as innocent as the day they were born. Who were they? They were just people going about their daily business; office workers, managers, cleaners, delivery people, maintenance workers, or like her, merely visitors to the place where it happened. Whoever they were, for her, they were always there.

Falling silently… dropping to the ground.

He looked into the future and saw the way it was all going.

As a general comment, he’d have to say it didn’t look good. Need any kind of information? You’ll find it online. Everything’s online. Phones, pads and mobile phones are there to get you anything you need. It’s all online. No more newspapers, all gone. If you want news it’ll be on line. It’s all there, online. Music halls and cinemas no longer needed. Everything’s online. Nowhere to buy a music centre, or even a player. They don’t make them anymore. CDs, records and tapes all gone. No need, there’s lots of music online. No more notes or coins. No more banks and no bank tellers to talk to, all gone. All currencies now crypto, all done online. No shops in the high street; even the convenience stores have gone. Whatever it is, you can buy it online. Everything’s online. Libraries are all gone, along with the books. Plug your earpiece in and listen to it being read.

Everything’s online.

And… if you can’t find it online, stop and think, it may no longer exist…