Author: Alexander Fawn

For her, it had started when she was very young.

At first, it was hardly noticeable. Being only a few millimetres off the ground was, as she came to realise, barely evident. For her, it became apparent that when walking on flat, solid ground, she made no noise. It was a source of amusement that most of the time she could do it without her friends knowing that she was actually doing it. At that age it was evident that her peers would poke fun at any kid that was a little bit different. She had supposed this went with childhood. So, having witnessed this nasty attitude being carried out by those she regarded as friends, it was seen as compulsory that she keep it to herself. Anyway, that’s how it started. In fact, that’s the way it was going to be as life went on.

This code of silence once set, stayed in place without her giving it a second thought. As she grew up none of her friends or parents or relations knew what she could do. In fact, there wasn’t a living sole who had the slightest inkling that she was a floater. Throughout her teenage years she had dived into the occasional bit of research, reading about everything from the writings and recordings of African Shamans to everyday people, who claimed to be able to levitate.

Looking back, it was during her late teens that her abilities had progressed to a point where she could rise several inches off the ground. It wasn’t until her late thirties that she had fully mastered the method of drifting up from a horizontal position. Once this was attained, it had become her favourite activity. This was followed by a long stretch of status quo. Through her forties, fifties and sixties, there had been little motive to take the thing any further. To float up, a meter or so from her bed was such an enjoyable experience that she had never asked for more.

The fact that she’d always lived alone and had never married allowed her to continue to privately practice and revel in the attribute, while maintaining the secrecy that had always surrounded it.

Now, in her eighties, and knowing that her life was coming to an end, without offering any practical proof, she considered asking a friend to write a short story about it and have him post it on his blog…

The nature and use of language,

With its labyrinth of rules to wend,

It being so widely scattered,

All hard to comprehend.

It’s a librarian soup of book fillers.

A kaleidoscope of oft uttered noise.

The verbalised phantom of words,

With all of the mood each employs.

–

A salad of words we mix and use,

Like patriotic, mathematic and robotic.

We’re shackled to such, either fluent or halting,

Like permissive, dismissive, neurotic.

–

A complex trove, riddled with thoughts,

Each group a meaning uncovers.

Each collection giving life to some theme,

And several billion others.

–

The joy of uttering sounds with tones,

For any that want to hear,

Despite within each mother tongue,

There’re changing from year to year.

When she came out of the shopping centre, she found something under her wiper.

It was an old envelope being reused. It contained a handwritten note and two tickets. The note read: ‘Sorry, scratched your door. Find two tickets to a show we can’t attend. Sorry again’. That was all it said. ‘She looked around at the doors and sure enough one had a scuff, where something had scraped passed it, probably a bumper. The damage was minimal and she felt sure that her husband could polish it out. She thought the whole thing was a nice gesture and couldn’t wait to tell her husband about it.

He was equally impressed and looking at the tickets they decided to go to the show, but they would eat out before the performance, as a way of celebrating the turn of events.

This is what they did.

When they returned home they found their house had been burgled.

The business was based on the fact that saying sorry was difficult for some people.

Their services were constantly in demand. Basically, a client would come to them and explain what was required. The customer describes the situation, explaining what had happened and how they had ended up owing the injured party an apology. Most times it was a simple matter of writing up an appropriate apology and handing it to the client, who would then go away and apologise. Sometimes the service extends to delivering the apology on behalf of the client. The fees varied according to whether this was done by sending a phone message or by sending an email or even typing up and posting a letter. In all cases a sincere apology was always provided.

The most expensive and most effective method of saying sorry, when the client simply cannot face the person, is to create a hologram of the client and have it make the apology in the client’s place. The expenses that build up for this type of operation can be fairly astronomical. This being the case, there are times when the client refuses to pay.

When this unfortunate situation occurs, we send the hologram back in order to retract the apology and to say something extremely rude.

This follow up strategy results in the client relying more heavily on the company’s services in order to come up with a really big apology!

The old woman entered the sweet shop and began looking around.

She went up and down the aisles, nodding and muttering to herself every time she took something from a shelf. She seemed to be enjoying what she was doing, giving occasional giggles. The shop owner looked on, surprised at how much she was gathering up. She finally went to the counter with her arms full of confectionaries; chocolates, candies, liquorices, caramels and several large lollipops.

The man smiled and said, “Wow! Really stocking up I see.”

She managed to spread it all out on the counter.

“Oh! Yes, I need to,” she said, “I’m expecting visitors and I know how much kids like sweets.”

He smiled saying, “Well, it keeps me in business.”

“Yes, I also use them as decorations, the children love that.”

“You do? Well now, that’s really good of you to go to so much trouble. I hope the kids appreciate it.”

She smiled with what teeth she had.

He worked out how much it all came to and she paid him.

“OK, I’ll put these in a bag for you,” he said, looking for a large bag.

“That would be nice, thank you.”

That was done and it was handed over.

On her way to the door he called out, “hope the kids enjoy their treats.”

On her way out she chuckled, “Oh! I’m sure little Hansel and Gretel will love them!

It was a warm summer’s day, and they were having fun.

After a lot of chasing around the back garden, he had her cornered up against the fence. They tussled with each other for a while. Finally, they just laid there, exhausted. He rolled over and looked intently into her eyes. She looked away. He sighed.

“Let’s get married,” he whispered.

She squirmed, and said, “We can’t do that.”

He shrugged. “Why not?”

“We just can’t, that’s all,” she replied.

“I don’t see why not. Cat’s often get married.”

“I don’t think so,” she said.

“Ha! That just shows how much you know!”

She shook her head. “No. Not to mice they don’t!”

He saw the old man waving at him as he approached the bed.

The ward was busy with visitors preparing to leave within moments of the allotted hours ending. The visitor was running late. The patient hailing him was extremely old and frail. He could see how much effort he had to make, just to raise his arm. He knew he could only stop briefly if he wanted to catch the bus. He pulled up a chair. The old man took his hand with a surprisingly firm grip.

His eyes filled with tears, and in little more than a whisper, he said, “There you are, I knew you’d come. Well done, my boy. I know it’s a long journey from where you live.”

The visitor looked around, before saying, “I’m afraid I’m a bit short of time at the moment… but I’m glad that I could be here.”

“Yes, my son, it has been so long…”

His grip relaxed and his head rolled back, as tears filled his eyes again. “Thank you, for giving me such a peaceful end,” he gasped. With that, his eyes slowly closed for what would be the last time.

The visitor looked around at the almost empty ward as the young nurse approached. She stood at the end of the bed for a few moments before saying, “Excuse me, but I don’t think you’re his son, are you?”

Without looking up, in a soft voice, he said, “Briefly, yes, I was. For just a few precious moments, I was.”

He looked up, smiling and rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. As he stood to leave, he said, “Precious for both of us, I think”.

There was a nostalgia section in the old man’s record store.

It had vinyls going back decades; recordings by long gone artists. The man perusing the racks selected an old original by Elvis Presley. He stood reading it for a while. He’d always been fascinated by the conspiracies about Elvis’s death.

Making polite conversation, the man said, “Nobody really knows how he died, do they?”

The old misery said, “Don’t they? I wouldn’t know about that.”

“Well,” he went on, “one of the most popular theories I heard was that Elvis actually faked his own death, in order to escape from the Mafia. What do you think?”

The old man sighed. “I have no idea.” He rang the sale up and handed over the change.

“I just thought you’d be interested, that’s all,” mumbled the customer.

Getting even more irritated, the old man said, “Look. Would it surprise you if I told you I couldn’t care less how he died?”

The man said, “Oh! I was just interested, that’s all. I mean, you are in here selling these old records, I’d have thought you might have a theory about it.”

The old man sneered. “Well, I haven’t, OK?”

The man shook his head in dismay. “I guess, to be sure, I’ll have to wait until I get to heaven, then I’ll ask him.”

The old man sighed and said, “What if he went to hell, have you thought about that?”

As he left the shop, the customer called out, “If that’s the case, you can ask him.”

There were days when he just didn’t feel like talking.

When he got in to work he knew it was one of them. He had his tray full of invoices that had to be checked and he had the relevant computer screen open. He had only just begun when the girl across the room called out and smiled. He gave her a quick wave and smiled back, then quickly went back to his screen.

It was definitely one of those days that he wasn’t in the mood for talking. She said something else, but he pretended that he didn’t hear. He thought about how hard it was at times letting others know that you don’t really feel like talking, without talking. If you do say something… it can easily be the start of something, like talking. An hour later the co-worker got up and left. When she returned she paused at his desk.

“You’re quiet today,” she said.

He just looked up and shrugged.

She stood for a moment before returning to her work station.

He kept working, knowing that she was looking at him. She was a nice girl, he thought, it wasn’t his intention to upset her. Anyway, that was how the day passed. When it was time to leave, he felt a small concession was required. He considered a brief word before leaving was appropriate.

Before leaving he said, “Good night. Didn’t feel much like talking today. Hope you understand.”

“Of course I do,” she said.

But she didn’t…

The man sat in silence at the small desk.

He mused. It had all seemed to be the right thing to do at the time. Yes, he knew he’d upset a lot of people. His wife, only recently married, had always been very supportive in his endeavours. He was looking sadly at a number of maps strewn across his desk. He idly turned some of them over. He had always believed that it was important to plan ahead carefully, for the future. It hadn’t gone the way he had planned it, that was for sure. The future; what was the future? All said and done, he had climbed the ladder successfully from what others would see were clearly humble beginnings. In that respect, he considered he had done very well for himself. He looked around again. A strange smile crossed his face as he thought about how the one thing he had missed more than anything else, was windows. He slowly opened his desk drawer and took out the gun. He thought of his wife, in another room.

It was his Berlin bunker.

It was April 30, 1945.