Author: Alexander Fawn

If nothing else, he was really good at making things vanish.

It started when he was a kid. He would amaze his friends by making things disappear. It could be just about anything, really; a marble, a paperclip, a coin. Anything that would fit in his hand. As time went on this became mobile phones, spectacles, wallets, and eventually rabbits. It was around this point that he took to the stage. Just small time at first. Then came the big stuff. Venues with hundreds in the audience watching him make large items disappear, like motorbikes, cars, and occasionally, his female assistant. Then came the really big time. The day he made a complete aircraft vanish was the day that the publicity it created put him and his act firmly in the world spotlight. In short, he became a celebrity. The popularity of his shows had him doing world tours, going from country to country, entertaining huge audiences. His success and rise to fame was recognised internationally.

In truth however, in his private life things were very different. He was fond of drink, gambled a great deal and owed the tax office a lot of money. None of this was known and didn’t come to light until his last tour. It became apparent that he’d gone under the radar when he missed the next scheduled performance on his tour. The press went wild with headlines about the magician vanishing. Police and authorities in several countries searched for him during the months that followed. The world press kept running the story until it was decided that he just wasn’t going to be found.

Finally, they gave up.

They simply couldn’t find him.

She just had to let it all out.

She was yelling her head off in the kitchen. “You make out that you care, but you really don’t. I sometimes think you’re just some kind of control freak. To my knowledge you’ve never helped me to find a job, or figure out how to pay the rent. You’ve never really given a damn about my situation, have you?”

There was no response.

“No, you haven’t!”

There was silence.

“Have you ever considered the fact that you go on allowing bad things to happen? Of course you don’t! You’ve just let it all slide, haven’t you? How could you let things get into such a mess?”

The silence became deadly.

“Your lack of help would certainly have contributed to my ending up a single mother! Damn it! Let’s face it, as far as I’m concerned, you just don’t exist!”

In truth, she had been very rude. But, hey! God forgave her.

She was a good natured girl, always kind and helpful, especially towards elderly customers.

That much was apparent. However, between customers, you wouldn’t know what the checkout girl was dreaming about. She slips her fingers into her back pocket, making sure her folded fifty dollar note is still there. Her shift finishes early today and she can easily stroll to the music shop at the other end of the shopping centre. She has saved for this. It’s a DVD/CD deluxe edition of her favourite group’s recent concert, with a booklet. She slowly realises that the old man is waiting. She knows him as a regular customer. He’s always come across as a sad figure, more so when his sickly wife past away a few months back. She had always liked him.

He suddenly asks what day it is. When told, he realises it is two days before his pension comes through. He begins putting several items aside. The woman behind him looks put out by the delay. The girl knows her as the manageress of the dress shop. A stern looking person, always very serious, bordering on grumpy.

After a short hesitation the girl slides her note over the edge of the counter. She leans across and looks down.

“I think you dropped something,” she says.

The old man stoops with difficulty and picks it up. He stares at it and says, “Not mine, I’m afraid.”

The girl smiles. “I think it is. I saw it fall out of your pocket.”

“Gracious!” He says, “How about that. Well, in that case,” he says, bringing all of his items together, “I’ll pay for them all with cash. Thank you so much, my dear. I’ve no idea where that came from, but thank heavens for your sharp eyes.”

The woman behind seems less agitated, but frowns. The old man moves off thanking her again. The girl begins checking the woman’s items. As she reaches with both hands to pick up a large can, she doesn’t see that something flutters to the ground behind her. When she’s been served, the woman pointed across the counter. The girl looks down to see a fifty dollar note, folded in half. Confused, she picks it up.

The woman’s eyes smile momentarily, before she walks away.

Careful reading of stories can show

What the writer wants you to know.

Things can be seen,

Hiding between,

In, out, above and below.

He had always been a most secretive person.

This fact, applying to any everyday person would not have drawn any attention. However, in his case, circumstances were different. The situation had come about because the man was recognised as being an internationally renowned expert on the complex subject of codes, their creation and how to break them. This, together with the fact that the long-awaited release of his new book was imminent, had his long-time publishing house holding its breath. They knew that this latest work of his would take the world by storm. Moreover, because of his renowned reputation, the publishing house had agreed to his rather unusual request regarding the way they would receive it.

So, it came about that after making a substantial up-front payment to secure their rites to publish, there was a great deal of growing anticipation, knowing that it would only be a matter of a day or two before the original draft was delivered to their offices.

On receipt of it, the publishers rued the day they agreed to receive his new book on a flash drive…

The amateur writer was asked to write a short story for the local newspaper.

He was excited about the prospect of being published, even if it was only something for his community paper. He came up with the idea of the adventures of a cat burglar who stole from houses by climbing up the sides of buildings and entering through upper windows. He submitted it to the editor. Unhappily, it was rejected because it was rather dull and the main character was not realistic. Naturally, he was disappointed and thought the criticism was harsh. After all, how could he possibly be expected to know what it was really like to be a cat burglar, he could only write about what he knew. It was then that the idea came to him.

Several months later he took a newly written story to the editor for possible publication. After reading it the newspaper man said it was a terrific story and it would definitely go in the next edition. He said that he should write further stories on the theme for the paper and he would publish all of them. He urged the writer to keep it up.

The writer said that wouldn’t be a problem now that he’d got the hang of it!

He wanted to know more, despite the complexity of the subject.

He would have to describe himself as a layman who wanted to know more about the financial services industry. With this in mind, he attended a free information seminar. During this two-hour evening, devoted to making money from investments and the workings of the stock exchange, there were repeated references to the Longfrost-Bunsworth Principle of Statistical Probability. Despite it being generally accepted that any one chance event will have no bearing on any future chance events, the Longfrost-Bunsworth Principle shows that the outcome of a random event can offer a degree of predictability when working with a small example. As interesting as it was to see graphs and tables based on this principle, there was no information given about who Longfrost and Bunsworth were.

Later that same evening, while it was all still fresh in his mind, he sat down at his computer. It turned out that Reginald Longfrost was the owner of a large ice-cream factory that is still a thriving business that he built up virtually from scratch, while Arthur Bunsworth, who inherited a chain of bakeries when his father died, and has since expanded the business with more shops opened in several other towns around the country.

Although it wasn’t clear how these two wealthy men came up with the principle in question, there were a number of versions concerning this. The majority had it that it was discussed and developed late one evening aboard Bunsworth’s yacht, the ‘Unlikely’. It is said that Bunsworth and Longfrost had spent the greater part of one particular evening playing poker, when a conversation was struck up that dealt with statistical probabilities. It is reported that after finishing off a bottle of Cherry Brandy, the two men scribbled down the said principle, using several coasters.

However, despite being a layman and having little or no specialised knowledge concerning such things, he couldn’t help thinking that the possibility of these two inebriated men could actually discover this principle was highly unlikely.

Unless, of course, one applied the Longfrost-Bunsworth Principle of Statistical Probability.

He responded to the front door bell.

The lady was flapping a religious pamphlet and saying that if he were to read it and open his heart, it would change his world. She looked to be around forty. A pleasant looking woman and certainly sincere. There was a passion about her; a force that was obviously driving her to get the message out to strangers. Complete strangers; anyone who’d listen. When she had finished her well-rehearsed introduction, he was gracious in his response, but projected a lack of interest. He wished her a good day. After closing the door, he moved to another window and watched as she moved on. He stood thinking about it for a while.

If it was another time of day and he wasn’t getting ready to catch the bus into town, well, it may have been different. He didn’t feel sorry for her, no, she was obviously doing something she believed in. That alone would give her a sense of doing something worthwhile. When he wished her a good day, he had meant it.

If it was another day, say, a Saturday afternoon around three, it may have been different. It was around that time that all shopping and chores were done. It was usually a time for him to relax. Sometimes the week’s crossword, sometimes a book or even a movie. He thought about what she was selling; maybe hope. Nothing wrong with that.

If it was another month, that would have been something else. He hated the cold. Standing with the door open was never something he was comfortable with. A sort of in limbo thing, neither in nor out. He had felt his knees getting cold when he was standing there. It was always his knees that got it. Yes. No doubt about it; if it had been a warmer time of year his attitude may have been very different.

If he lived in another country, he thought, what then? If it was his mother country, the country of his birth, who knows how they respond to religious callers? If it were him, a foreigner living there, he would no doubt observe the customs of those around him. When in Rome… He would probably be more aware about not causing offence, being an outsider. He would tend to be a lot more cautious. Would countries with nice climates compared with those with miserable weather respond differently to people showing up unannounced at their front door? Probably, he thought.

If he lived on another planet, ah! That would be something else again. Well, they may not have front doors. May not have houses! People have been talking about life on other planets for as long as he could remember. Whether it be in the form of the simplest microbial life or a type of totally powerful being, of some non-physical nature… almost Godlike, either way, something other out there, living. Such notions make it hard to compare the front door incident.

If he lived in another universe? Now, on this subject his comparison of the earlier domestic incident tends to evaporate entirely. Nevertheless, the topic of multi-universe theories had always fascinated him. Ranging from the parallel universe theory, through to the idea that there are many other universes. Between science and religion there have been many numbers of universes postulated.

All this reverie came to an end when he considered momentarily, what if he were another person.

He’d be thinking none of this.

She was sick of everybody telling her she was getting old.

Yes, OK, she has been known to miss her step now and again, who doesn’t do that? As for occasionally feeling a little woozy, surely everybody gets that from time to time. Health-wise she was good, really good, she thought. In her mind, she was at least thirty years younger than she looked. Sunlight was coming in through the curtains, it looked as though it would be a nice day. She could probably do a bit in the garden, despite what those doomsayers would tell her.

With that, she got out of bed and made her way to the bathroom. There was no tripping and no giddiness, of course. What do these people know? A few minutes later, she was looking at herself in the mirror with her face screwed up in disgust.

They may have a point, she thought, but she wouldn’t be telling anybody that she had just brushed her teeth with her rheumatoid arthritis vapour rub…

His friend had never really believed he could do it.

This was despite the fact that he’d often talked about it. He’d never actually demonstrated it. They were good friends, attending the same school; different classes, but same bus there and back. His friend showed amazing patience and acceptance when told about the boy’s apparent ability to see, smell and feel things when he heard music. His friendship stopped him evaluating. That was the case until that afternoon. He had invited him over. It was weekend and his parents were out for the day. This meant that they could chill out in his room. He himself had a passion for music and had a large collection. This was just a passion, with none of the powers his friend talked about. Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony was playing through the speaker on his bedside table when his friend arrived.

Quite out of the blue his friend said, “He was sitting by a stream when he wrote that bit; in his mind I mean.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know his name,” he smiled, “I bet you do.”

“Yes, Beethoven.” Cautiously, he asked, “How can you know that?”

“I heard the ripple of running water and the twittering of birds. I’m not really sure if he was sitting.”

“Wow! So you really can do it!”

“Yes.” He shrugged.

The other said, “Let me try something.”

“Sure.”

He went to his bookcase stacked with discs. He fed one into his player. “This guy is one of my favourites. See what you get from this.” The slow, crooning began, with a guitar accompaniment.

“He’s not happy.”

“No. It’s a sad number, I guess.”

“No, I mean, when he wrote this. He was away from his home and I think he was drunk. There’s a strong smell of alcohol. He was also in pain. In his chest, I think.”

The other sat gaping. Finally, he said, “He died of lung cancer a few months after making this record.”

“Sad.” Said the other.

The boy got up and went to his collection. With hands trembling, he selected a piece by a local pop singer. One that lived in the same town. He was becoming famous and the local radio station was playing a lot of his stuff. He hadn’t recorded anything for a while. He started the track and his friend listened.

It was several minutes before the boy said anything. “I don’t like this one,” he said at last.

“The music, you mean?”

“No. What I can see and feel. It’s not nice. It’s different. It’s very strong. I think it’s happening now!” His cheeks were turning red. “They must be investigating.” He shook his head, but the vision stayed. “The smell’s bad in there. He’s sitting, no squatting, in the corner of a cell with new lyrics beginning to form in his head. It’s about a girl. I think she goes to our school. He has blood on his hands and his clothes.”

He was beginning to sweat when he stared across at the other. “I don’t like this. I shouldn’t be involved in this. I think I should go home. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not,” came the understanding reply.

Minutes later he watched his friend leave.

Over the next few days he would look out for something in the local newspaper.

Naturally, out of respect for his friend, he’d say nothing.