Author: Alexander Fawn

There is so much that is unseen,
Where concealment is in play.
Not knowing where to look;
All that is hidden, stays that way.
–
Things that remain obscure,
Inside a story or a word,
Hidden in a subtle change,
Or something never heard.
–
Hiding in a thought,
A gesture or a smile,
A simple case of absence,
Or through another’s guile.
–
By lack of light or camouflage,
An idea destroyed,
Or buried deep within a heart,
With iniquity employed.
–
Lost in a memory,
An embrace or a touch.
The fact that some things can’t be found,
Is ineffable, as such.
–
So many things are out of view,
And no searching will this allay.
There comes a trite acceptance,
That things that are truly hidden,
Tend to stay that way.

He had met her during a week at the country health farm resort.
Quite apart from the fact that she was an attractive woman, it was a delight to sit chatting with her about health issues and how people should really take care of their bodies. He found her descriptions of the human body being a temple, with the occasional reference to Paul the apostle and what he had said in Corinthians about it, quite exhilarating. For him, the week had passed a lot quicker than it would have without her regular company and the routine of the place was made far more tolerable for the same reason. In short, they hit it off, and both agreed that they meet up in the world outside when the course was over. In fact, the excitement regarding this idea that they should get together was heightened when, on the final day, she suggested that he visit her in her apartment for dinner one evening the following week. A date and time were set.
On the night, she set about cooking a meal well ahead of time. She would make a real effort to provide a meal that he would never forget. She enjoyed cooking and had made sure she had all the required ingredients on hand when she started to cook. She had made a concerted effort to ensure she had really fresh cauliflower, artichokes, broccoli, zucchini, and asparagus, together with her favourites, bok choy and spinach.

On the night, arriving at her apartment block with feelings of excitement and anticipation he entered the lobby and found an elevator. The instant he came out of the lift at her floor, misty vapours filled the air. The fragrance of a mixture of steamed leafy greens wafted through the long hallway. The bouquet of it grew stronger as he made his way, looking for her number. In truth, when he reached her door, the smell was almost overpowering!
Seeing a set of lift doors at the other end of the hall, he held his breath… and kept walking.

The old man at number eighty-six was dying.
Not that anyone knew that. His neighbour had known that he was sick, a while back, when he last visited. There were no known relatives and most of those that lived in the street were aware of that. The next-door neighbour thought he should call in. At the door, he elderly man reluctantly let him in. They sat in the lounge room and spoke for a while before the neighbour asked seriously how the other was doing. He admitted that the doctor hadn’t given him long. As a result of their conversation it became clear that to pass away peacefully on his own would be what he would prefer.

It was established that he didn’t need a doctor because that had all been done and there was no point. It also became clear that there was no need for a visit to the hospital, as there was nothing they could do for him now. He explained that he didn’t need any help with anything. He was up to getting out from time to time to do a little shopping. There was nothing he needed; nothing his neighbour could do for him. He thanked him for thinking of him.
When he returned to his home, he thought about what he had learnt from the visit. The man was terminally ill and dying, it was as simple as that. He felt undecided about what to do, but there was obviously nothing he could do. Nothing that the old man would want him to do. There was no simple answer, no solution. It was what it was, and he had to accept the man’s wishes to be left alone and he found that the acceptance of that, was such a surprisingly hard thing to do.

Nobody noticed the man standing in the shadows.
The bustling market was noisy with traders arguing and discussing the price of their goods with potential customers. That… thought the tall figure, dressed in a white robe, with long hair and a beard, that hasn’t changed. He took in the odours that were wafting up from the stalls, carried by a hot desert wind. He closed his eyes and lifted his chin, with spice dust and fine sand blowing across his face, he remembered. He remembered his time teaching. He remembered his journeys, spreading the word, walking great distances with his followers.
But this, this time… it’s not the same. The dress is different, and the soldiers in uniforms, patrolling in pairs, guarding the place and the people. They carry guns, machine guns. What has happened here?

A voice came to him, whispering, come away, son. His father’s voice,
Nobody noticed that the man in the shadows was no longer there.

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.