Author: Alexander Fawn

The mighty cliff stood looking out to sea.

It could see the great, swelling waves coming in, all the way from the distant horizon. It considered the influence that the moon and the sun had on the tides. It thought about the great rising and falling of the seas and how this was brought about by the powerful forces that were constantly at play.

It reflected on the singular relationship that existed between its planet, the moon and the sun, and their perpetual movements in space, and the effect that all this has on the vast oceans around the planet.

It envisaged the miraculous balancing of water levels that takes place while its planet, spinning on its axis with centrifugal force pushing out, competes with gravity pulling in.

It thought about the low and the high tides, and how it was the high tide that carried out the never-ending pounding at its base. It sighed as it considered yet again just how much damage it did and how this marred the proud statement it made, sitting as it did at the forefront of all the land behind it.

It knew all this but couldn’t stop the everlasting corrosion to its majestic stand; its towering edifice, its shear grandiose beauty.

Just then a great mountain of sea crashed noisily into its lofty surface. Cracks widened and splinters of rock were shattered free, dragged back down its face to be swallowed by the gurgling foam at its foot. Then, after a moment of calm, it felt a steady rumbling vibrate within it, followed by a mighty crack.

A great slab of the cliff face toppled down into the foam, there to be ground into tiny pieces by the relentless movements of the tide.

It groaned, and thought “Oh! Great! There goes another bit!”

There are so many kinds of clutter;

They don’t have to be very large.

They can all be easily cleared away,

As long as you’re willing to take charge.

–

Or, if a house is filled with such stuff

With no chance it will ever subside,

You can step out into the garden

And forget what you have inside.

–

But if you enjoy foraging around

In the great junk drawer of life,

Who is to say you can’t live that way,

Whether you’re husband or wife.

–

You may tend to wade through such clutter,

As you move from room to room.

Such as packets of seeds, fully expired,

The head of a garden broom.

–

Jigsaw pieces, a broken zipper,

A paperweight never used.

Tiny nuts and screws, books never read;

A receipt that left you confused.

–

Misshaped paperclips, jam jar lids,

Batteries alive and dead;

A combination note for something or other,

An ear from a lost figurine’s head.

–

Seashells from a forgotten seashore,

A saved label from some bottle of brandy.

There are bits and pieces of this and that.

You’re quite sure they’ll come in handy.

–

If it exists it’s because you need it,

Of that there is no doubt.

When all’s said and done,

At the end of the day,

Surely, the clutter will sort itself out!

She stood for several minutes gazing at the huge canvas.

It was as she was moving away that she heard his voice. “You get lost in him, don’t you?” Startled, she looked behind her. She said “Sorry?” “The artist I mean. You get lost in him.” She went back to the picture and nodded slowly. “Yes. You do.” He stood closer saying “I find that in all his work.”

That was how it started. A classic whirlwind romance really. It was as though neither of them expected it. They spent the whole afternoon walking around the gallery. They had so much in common, quite apart from their mutual love of paintings.

They left as the gallery was closing and he asked if she would like to go for a meal. She hesitated, saying that she did have some commitments, but finally decided that it was nothing that couldn’t wait. After all, blushing slightly, she said she had enjoyed the afternoon so much she didn’t want it to end.

After walking through the city, looking in shop windows, taking in the sights, and constantly talking and finding out all they needed to know about each other, they arrived at a restaurant he recommended. The evening was spent wining and dining. It was late when he paid the bill and they made their way out onto the street.

They stood for a while, his arm around her, breathing in the night air. He said “I don’t live far from here. Would you like to come back for a coffee?”

She looked a little embarrassed and said “Would you mind if I said no, not this time. It has been a wonderful day and I don’t want to rush things. Next time, you have my number”. She gave him a hug and kissed him. He smiled and reluctantly hailed her a taxi. When it pulled up she got in and blew him a kiss as it moved off into the traffic. He stood, watching it disappear into the night.

In the taxi she looked down at the wallet. It was fat. Not easy to lift. She was pleasantly surprised at how much cash it contained. It was only a short hop to the next city.

She could fly!

The house stood empty looking and feeling sad.

The old, two-storey house at the end of Haven Lane, had been there a long time. It had been very quiet of late, but now there was a real estate agent getting out of his car with a ‘For Sale’ placard fixed to a stake. The house knew that this would happen. Mrs Harris had been gone for quite some time and a strangers hand held the keys that locked it all up. It was inevitable that, as old as it was, someone would eventually come in and make it their own. Mrs Harris was a lovely old lady, very gentle, was always respectful, she cleaned and treated the house well. Would she ever comeback?

After banging in the sign, and after sending unwanted vibrations through the house, the agent approached the front door jangling a set of keys. The house prepared itself. He stood for a moment, selected one, then pushed it into the lock. It wouldn’t turn. He wondered, had they been labelled wrong? He tried another. The house was holding fast. With all its might it held the lock’s tumblers tight. After trying all of the keys, the agent returned to his car and drove away.

The house sighed with relief. This was a reprieve only, it knew that. He would be back. He would break in if he had to, this the house also knew. When will the old lady return? Would she ever return? Peculiar things had happened when strangers had come in and removed all the furniture, including the bed and her favourite chair. Where would she sleep? Where would she sit? She never used any of the other chairs. The steady pulsing sound and reverberation of her old, comfy rocking chair would send a soothing lullaby through the house, through the beams and walls and ceilings. Would the house never feel this again? Somehow, the house knew that Mrs Harris wasn’t coming back! The house would not allow itself to be sold to any new owners. The house would need to think about this; it had to decide for itself what sort of future it had.

The agent returned after office hours with more keys. This time, the door unlocked with ease and he entered with a small bag. He made his way to the lounge and proceeded to measure the room. He was measuring and writing figures down in a notebook. He was moving from room to room, but the light was failing. He went to the switchboard and flicked the main switch. A light came on in the kitchen and he went back to measuring cupboards.

The house felt the familiar pulse of electricity tingling through its wires. The house searched, looking for the weakest point. It found it. A floor socket in an unused bedroom was loose. It had been damaged a long time ago but left unused. The wiring behind it was old and decayed. The house waited.

The man finally packed his things up and carrying his bag in one hand and a small torch in the other, made his way back to switch the power off. The house waited; now straining to maintain its focus on the damaged socket. As the agent approached the switch board he didn’t hear the pop of the socket or the smell of burning wires. He flicked the switch, and using his torch the agent made his way back to the front door, passed through and locked it. As he climbed into his car he didn’t hear the crackle of flames running along the floor skirting, or the pungent odour of smouldering paint.

By the time the alarm had been raised and the fire service was called and on the scene, it was too late. The fire was burning fiercely, but it was contained. Nothing around it was in danger of catching alight; so it was allowed to slowly burn itself out.

In the middle of the night, a single glowing ember, the very last, blinked out… and with it, the house gave a tiny sigh.

The poet walked in his garden, listening to the birds.

This was something he did quite regularly, but this morning would not be regular. It began when a dove settled on a branch just above him and chirped out a little song. He looked up and said “Well now, that is certainly different. Since when did you start singing that particular tune? “

“I’m surprised you noticed the difference” replied the dove. “Not many would you know, or for that matter, not many could.”

“Well I can certainly hear the difference, why is that?”

“Why is what? … why is it different or why can you hear it?”

The poet replied “Both, I suppose.” He thought for a moment, then went on “Quite apart from those two questions, what about the question of me being able to talk to you, surely that in itself is quite remarkable, wouldn’t you say?”

“Not really.”

“Oh! Not really you say?”

“No. There are lots of people who can do that. Most of the time they are not believed of course, but they can do it.”

“I had no idea!”

“Oh! Yes, I think Francis might have started it all, or at least helped it along.”

“Francis?”

“…of Assisi.”

“Oh! Yes, of course, him.”

“He used to preach to them, you know.”

“Them?”

“The birds.”

“Oh! Really? I didn’t know that.”

“Yes, they, or we I should say, would flock to hear him speak. He was such a nice man.”

The poet lifted his shoulders and stretched a little, as if to bring himself back to the point. He continued “OK. Some people are able to converse with birds. We have established that, but why can I hear the difference in the call you make?”

“I just don’t know the answer to that, it puzzles me. I’ll ask around later. Meanwhile, I’ll confide in you about the difference.”

“Confide?”

“Yes, confide.”

“I am honoured.”

The dove said “You should be” and turned his head to the side. “I have met my partner. Yes, only yesterday we sat on a branch together, not far from here. She is by far the prettiest dove you ever did see, and she has agreed to be my partner. Hence the difference in my call. Only she can recognise it.”

The poet said “That is truly wonderful! I am so happy for you and I thank you most sincerely for sharing your good news with me.”

The dove said “You’re welcome.”

The poet stood with his palms open “So, where is this beauty now?”

“Behind you”, came the proud reply.

He turned and looked up at the dove; it was a very beautiful bird. At this point she lowered her head and breast very low, then came slowly up.

The poet bowed in return.

At this point there was a flapping of wings; first he then she, sailed off to start a new life together.

The poet went back into his secluded room, to carefully set down an account of it all.

 

 

 

 

He knows he needs to let go of that last bus ride home.
He had known for months that her folks were moving overseas. They had already found a new school for her. They knew they weren’t coming back. He just had no idea how much of a loss it was going to be. She was so bright; such a good pupil. He was never very good at history, or geography when it came right down to it. When he thought about it, she had taught him everything he knew.
It had started at the school dance over a year ago. Her closeness, her whispered humour, the fragrance of her hair. Honeysuckle, she had told him, when he asked about it. Some shampoo with a scent of honeysuckle. Despite his age, it was an old aroma that came back to him from his really early childhood when the family would visit Grandma. It was an old house with a toilet out the back, almost hidden by the climbing shrub, all but covered with fragrant white and yellow flowers. Hundreds of tiny coloured tubes giving off their sweet perfume. He had no idea how much those earlier memories had attracted him to her, but there they were… very real.
But he had to move on. He knew how much her going had affected him. He knew how much he needed to let go of the painful loss, the lingering grief and the scent of her hair; all those things he experienced during those last few minutes. The remaining moments of that last ride home on the school bus.
He had watched from the back window until she was out of sight, then, like now, he was left with only the fragrance of her hair.
Her name was Sally, but for him she would always be… Honeysuckle.

 

The two boys sat dangling their legs at the end of the jetty.

They had met for the first time that morning in the nearby holiday town. It was agreed that they were both bored and would meet at the lake’s edge in the afternoon. It was a lonely spot with nobody around, which suited both of them.

They were of similar age and build, except one had red hair while the other was fair.

Blondie said “I’m here with my folks. My Dad is a millionaire and in charge of lots of companies.”

Ginger raised his eyebrows in disbelief. He thought for a while, then said “My mother is an Olympic runner. She’s been selected for the next games.”

Blondie said “My sister is a secret agent working for the government.”

Ginger took a deep breath and said “I have an uncle that knows how to make himself invisible.”

Blondie looked impressed. He said “My mother is able to levitate at will.”

Ginger nodded saying “I’m actually a lizard disguised in a human body.”

Blondie smirked and said “I have vast super-human powers that nobody knows about.”

Ginger turned green and ate him.

 

He stood in the doorway of the vacant shop across the road and lit a cigarette.

He had a good view of the bank from where he stood. It was the quiet part of the day with few customers to worry about. He eyed people as they entered and left. He looked up and down the street; he knew where all the CCTV cameras were.

He looked at his watch, it was time to make his move. He finished his cigarette and ground it out in the gutter. He crossed the street slowly. This wasn’t what he wanted to do, but he needed the money.

He paused at the entrance to brush ash off his uniform as he entered the bank.

He opened the door and went back to work.

 

The man in the suit with the briefcase had time on his hands.

His next customer had cancelled on him at the last minute. As he had time to kill before the next appointment he decided to take a casual stroll through the neighbourhood. He hadn’t got very far before coming across a very strange sign on a front lawn that read ‘Cosmic Surprise Sold Here’. He stood gazing at it for a while, full of curiosity. Stranger still was the fact that it seemed to be scribbled in a child’s hand.

After checking the time again, he decided to go up to the house to find out what it meant. He knocked at the door and waited. After a while the door was opened by a young girl. She gave a very grown-up smile and said “Hello, can I help you?”

He was rather taken aback, but managed to say “I saw your sign.”

She looked past him and nodded. “Yes?”

“Did you write it?”

“I did, yes.”

“Well, I was just wondering what it meant.”

She looked surprised and said “Just what it says.”

“But it says you are selling a Cosmic Surprise.”

“That’s right. Are you interested at all?”

The man considered for a moment. His inquisitiveness was certainly running high and he wanted to know more. He nodded and said “Yes. All right.”

She led the way down the hall and into a sitting room. She pointed at a couch and said “Please sit here. I’ll be back in a moment.”

He had just made himself comfortable when she appeared in the doorway wearing big leather gloves and holding a rod that was glowing bright purple. She was saying “Head up a little more please.”

Just as he looked up there was a brilliant flash that sent him reeling. It seemed to have thrown him off the couch. He was on the floor, scrambling to his feet.

He was rubbing his eyes and staggering a little.

“What the hell was that?” he shouted.

“I gave you what you wanted. Do you have a Seniors Card?”

“No. I don’t.”

“Full price then. That’ll be three dollars.”