Author: Alexander Fawn

Mike and Rodney were the best of mates.

This had been the case from the time they first met, despite their vastly different personalities. It had been a simple matter of opposites attracting. Rodney had always looked up to his older friend, while Mike had always liked the innocence and straight forward nature of the younger boy. Mike was the worldly type despite his age, while Rodney was very much the wide-eyed innocent that some of the rougher boys had seen as a target; that was before Mike came along.

Mike’s view concerning most of the kids he went to school with was that they were pretty evil. But Rodney, he was OK. He got a real kick out of answering his questions; and Rodney seemed to have an endless supply of these. Today was no different. They met at the far end of the playground, sitting on the bench used for sports.

After a little idle chat Rodney became more serious and said “Tell me Mike, what happens when you die?”

Mike supressed a grin and said “Well, when you die your heart stops pumping blood around your body. Your brain cells die off pretty quickly, the body starts decomposing, and your skin dries out and turns grey. Then this thing called rigor mortis sets in and the body goes really stiff.”

Rodney, who had been sitting in rapt attention, was now thinking it over. He looked up and said “Wow! Thanks Mike.”

Mike went to say something more, but was interrupted by the bell jangling, calling them back to class.

As they moved off to their respective classes Mike watched the noisy crowd pushing and shoving their way back through the narrow doorway into the school building.

He shook his head. There was no way he would tell his friend the truth. That for most of the people around them, death would be a matter of being instantly transported to the nether regions of Hell, where their charred and writhing bodies would remain in agony for the whole of eternity!

No, that would certainly upset him. Besides, he was a good friend… that would have been really unkind.

He heard something rattle as he struggled to get the phone out of his pocket.

He did a lot of driving, driving for a living, but he enjoyed it. He had a regular courier run that took him out of town into the country, then back again. Behind the wheel he was his own boss; nobody looking over his shoulder. The open road was where he liked to be; where he was in his element.

Seeing that the call was from his wife he answered with a cheery hello. The usual stuff, nothing unusual, bits of shopping to pick up at the end of the day. He rang off and peered down the side of the seat. Something had clattered down there, but he couldn’t see it. He shifted a little to one side and looked again. He could see something silver, glinting. A ten-cent piece… that’s what he had heard. He jammed his hand down the gap. He could touch it, but couldn’t get his fingers around it. He was trying a sort of two-finger scissor technique when he heard the bang.

The next thing he knew a nurse was telling him that his wife had been informed. Informed about what, he wasn’t sure. He had been given some sort of drug because the break in his arm was going to be painful when he woke up. It took several minutes, after the nurse had moved on, for him to realise that he had been in a vehicle accident and was now in a hospital bed. He had no memory of any of these events; which was pretty scary. He drifted off to sleep.

Sometime later, as his eyes flickered open and began to focus, he found his wife saying “…and you have no idea what happened?”

“No. There was a loud bang, but I have no idea what happened.”

“Apparently, you ran off the road. The van was towed away; I suppose we’ll find out more later; but none of that matters now, does it? It’s you I’m worried about. What have the doctor’s said?”

“Haven’t spoken to any. Haven’t been awake long.”

She looked around. “I’ll have a word with that nurse.” She strolled back along the ward, leaving him wondering again about what had happened to send him off the road.

She came back and pulled up a chair. “We’re in for a bit of a wait. The doctor will be here doing his rounds in about an hour. We’ll know more then.” She looked around. “I suppose they have a coffee machine somewhere, I’m gasping! You don’t mind do you?”

“No. Of course not, but I can’t help you; they’ll know at the front desk.”

She stood, leant across and kissed him. “Bless you. I’m sure they won’t let me bring you one.” She smiled and took off.

A few minutes later she came back sipping her drink, but she didn’t look happy.

“What’s up?”

“Oh! Just some smart-arse, giving me a hard time.”

“Why? What happened?”

She sighed. “Well, the machine didn’t give me my change, I tried banging the side of it. That sort of thing always annoys me… you know?

He nodded. “Yes, I do know” and grinned.

“I mean, either it’s right or it’s wrong; simple as that.”

“Agreed, but who gave you a hard time?”

“Well, I just happened to complain to a guy standing there. He smirked and told me if that’s all I had to worry about I needed to get a grip. He missed the point altogether, of course. To make matters worse, as I left he called after me saying he would give me the ten cents if I really needed it.”

The man in the bed remembered.

A chat room of trees held a meeting;

It started with just one or two.

But over a number of hours

The numbers just grew and grew!

–

It began with a Gum’s views on logging

And the state that the forests were in;

He wondered why trees were so powerless,

When an elderly Ironbark chipped in.

–

It seemed that an old Oak from England

Had been chatting with a Pine from Rome.

And in no time at all they agreed

That their fears weren’t confined to a zone.

–

“It’s the same the whole world over.”

Said a Dogwood right out of the blue.

And a Cypress and Peach, an Aspen and Beech

All had the same point of view.

–

As more and more trees came on line,

Across many a time zone and border;

The general air turned into despair

‘Til the Oak called them all into order.

–

“I suggest”, it said, with a tone quite dread

And an idea that really inspired,

“That we draw up a list, with nothing missed

Of the actions we think are required”.

–

“Some trees have leaves with a poison

They could drop as folk walk by”

The idea came from a Bonsai

Who could never be labeled as shy.

–

The Plane tree and Chestnut spoke up

With downed power lines that make quite a spark.

Sycamore and Holly thought the notion quite jolly

To leave lots of folk in the dark.

–

Cutting off water with roots in pipes

Was a Cottonwood’s favourite trick.

The Maple and Ash thought morale would crash,

So Magnolia and Cedar gave a tick.

–

The Apple and Linden came forth

With a plan to rot fruit as it grows.

The Alder and Hemlock liked the idea,

And the Willow would not oppose.

–

“A drive can be blocked”, said a Birch,

“With folks trapped to starve in despair.”

“This could be done”, said the Walnut and Plum

With the Persimmon, Hickory and Pear.

–

Cracking footings and bringing down buildings

Was a popular form of attack.

With Redwood and Cherry, Teak, Larch and Mulberry

All voting this way to pay back.

–

The Juniper thought dropping branches

Would knock off a few of their kind;

The Olive and Hawthorn saw merit in that

They had a similar notion in mind.

–

A Poplar proposed crushing by falling.

“You could take out a group to boot.”

The Fir and Pawpaw voted this way for sure,

With Spruce, Box and Elm following suit.

–

When the list was complete a seedling piped up.

“You want humans to do your bidding?

Despite your brave talk

And the problems you squawk,

And the ideas you hawk

I’m plagued with the thought…

Just who the hell are you kidding?”

She was so rude!

In all the time they had been together she had never got this angry. He knew there would be differences of opinion about planning their new house, but he wasn’t expecting anything like this. He was beginning to wonder if all this was worthwhile.

They had argued yesterday about where to put the kitchen window in their dream home. Now she was making a big thing about which wall the bathroom mirror should go on. He had known her for years, but he could only take so much of her nasty moods.

He sat back and looked at her. He too was angry. “Just go, if that’s the way you feel” he said.

“I will” she replied, stamped her foot and stormed off.

“And don’t come back” he yelled.

When he heard the door slam he thought about all the times they’d had together. He suddenly felt very sad. Under his breath he said “I’m really going to miss her.”

He slowly gathered up the windows, doors, kitchen cabinets, tables and chairs, and one by one, started to put the Easy to Build Juniors Family House blocks, back into the toy box.

The man stood looking around the pottery gallery. He had found it more or less by accident, tucked away and off the main road, with only the smallest sign to say it was there.

He was admiring the quality of the work. The shelves and tables displayed beautifully crafted jugs and bowls; each piece had a unique and distinctive decoration. He could see the craftsmanship that had gone into the soft and elegant designs, with their swirling patterns of colour.

But what struck him most was the fact that there were barely twenty pieces on display! There was obviously room for a lot more. He started to think about what could be done with a business of this sort, and with such a high quality product. He eyed the man standing behind the counter flipping through a magazine. He had given no indication that he was even aware that he had a customer.

The visitor circled around a couple more times before deciding on a vase. He was sure his wife would like it. Apart from it being a real work of art, it was just the right shade of blue for the hall table. He approached the counter.

The owner looked up and smiled. “That one? I’ll wrap it for you.”

The man stood looking around the gallery while the owner found sheets of paper.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how long would it take you to make these?”

The other said, “No not at all, I suppose I spend two or three hours each evening.”

The visitor was amazed. “Really? So, you would produce two or three pieces in that time?”

“Well, mostly yes. Although it could be more on a good night; and it does depend a lot on what sort of items I’m working on.”

“I must say I’m impressed with the quality of the pieces you have on display here; quite beautiful.”

“Thanks.” The man carried on wrapping.

The buyer cleared his throat. “Look”, he began, “I’m a Business Analyst. I work in the city. I see enormous potential here. I mean, if you only spend a couple of hours a day making these pieces, what do you do with the rest of your time?”

The owner smiled and looked a little embarrassed. “Well, to be honest with you, I do like to sleep late.” He shrugged his shoulders and leaned forward on the counter contemplating the question. “Ï suppose, most of my mornings are taken up with walking. I often take long morning walks.” He scratched his head and looked past the visitor. He raised a finger. “Ï have a vegetable garden out the back and I get a kick out of pottering around out there.” He straightened up and ran his hands through his hair. “And I must admit… every chance I get I tend to spend time sitting, listening to classical music with a glass of wine.” He chuckled, and a broad smile lit up his face.

The other fanned his hands in a gesture of starting some sort of presentation.

“Look. Like I said, I’m a Business Analyst. I work in the city. Just consider for a moment. Why not put in more hours during the day? If you worked for eight hours a day, six days a week, you could produce five times the quantity of product. Then, with the additional sales you could advertise. You could take on staff to take on some of the work load. As I say, I’m a Business Analyst. I could write a Business Plan for you.”

He looked around the shop. “Why, in less than a decade you could have such a successful business that you could sell it off.”

“Hang on. If I did all that, what would I do with myself?”

“Well, that’s it you see. You could retire to a quiet spot in the country somewhere, take your early morning walks, grow vegetables, and sip wine while listening to classical music whenever you wanted.”

The owner raised his eyebrows.

The Business Analyst from the city paused. He reflected for a moment. His face coloured. He smiled awkwardly and said “Yes, well, I’ll just take the blue vase, thanks.”

Cynthia put the grocery bag down quickly as she entered. She spun around and slid the first bolt. She sighed. That first bolt was always the one that really did it for her. The sound of it clunking into place was music to her ears. The second was almost as good. It was a lot bigger. It too went home with a satisfying thud. Finally, now perspiring with the effort, she smacked the fifth and last bolt home.

The first floor lock was the tricky one, a thick steel rod that slid down through brackets into a metal keep in the floor. She had to get it just right. It was heavy and a very snug fit. She paused for a moment or two to catch her breath. The second was a lot easier, it fell silently several inches into the floor with a click.

She could relax now. She picked up her bag and went through to the kitchen to put shopping away and make a well-earned cup of tea.

What was she thinking? She hadn’t put the bar up.

She went back to the door.

Now this was the final lock; the latest one. Although, in fact, it had been several years since her dear Harold had created it for her. He said at the time that he didn’t think it was really necessary, but then Cynthia had said that it was always better to be safe than sorry. So, wonderful man that he was, he went down to the local scrap yard and found a metal bar that would do the job. When he had finished he told her, somewhat forcefully she thought, that she really wouldn’t be needing any more locks.

She smiled at the thought of how loving and patient her late husband was as she hefted the bar. It was all she could do to lift it and it was always a struggle getting it into the steel brackets mounted on either side of the door.

Suddenly, her wrist twisted and went weak and the bar turned diagonally. She found herself stepping back, with the bar coming after her. As she hit the floor she felt and heard something crack.

It was her hip, badly crushed. She couldn’t move. She didn’t have the strength to lift the bar that now pinned her to the floor. The excruciating pain that had started in her hip was now washing through her entire body. Her head had bounced heavily on the floor and she was losing consciousness.

The phone was a long way away. If she could reach it she could call for an ambulance. With extreme effort, she raised her head enough to look at the door. To get in, anybody would have to knock a hole in the wall!

Cynthia suddenly realised, she wouldn’t be needing any more locks.

Once upon a time, on a hot summer’s day, a princess rowed leisurely across the little pond in her royal grounds.

A large, green frog was sitting on a lily-pad in the middle of a sparkling pond watching her with great interest. As she glided past the lily-pad, the frog raised his head and called to her. “Kiss me,” called the frog, “upon my forehead, and I will turn into a handsome prince.”

“I think not,” replied the princess, noticing that it was quite wet beneath her fine slippers and wrinkling her nose with distain, “I rule my own kingdom thank you very much; I lead my own armies into battle and I make my own laws. I am, as they say, my own person. I need no prince, handsome or otherwise”. She dipped her oars and stared at the creature. With a whimsical smile she asked, “What else do you have to offer?”

“Then kiss me,” said the frog, “upon my forehead, and I will grant you great fortunes.”

“Oh! Sod that!” sneered the princess. “I maintain a strictly balanced budget with good economic growth and sensible interest rates”. She looked down at the water, now slopping around her feet. “Besides, your great riches would no doubt devalue my currency, send inflation soaring and cripple my Kingdom’s very reasonable current exchange rates. Is that the best you have to offer?”

“Alright, if you kiss me,” said the frog, getting a little miffed, “upon my forehead, I will grant you dazzling beauty.”

“How very flattering,” scoffed the princess, “I may be plain, but beauty does not last, whereas personality does!” She tossed her hair and giggled. “It’s personality that counts.”

The frog didn’t like being made fun of; or rejected when offering such wonderful gifts, especially when such things were being offered without any request for payment or return. “What the hell do you want then?” demanded the frog.

The princess paused and thought hard for the first time. After several moments she leaned closer to the pad and whispered, “I want to be happy.” She then lowered her head and kissed the frog upon his forehead.

The frog then saw the sadness in her eyes for the first time. “Well now”, he began, “You have refused love, riches and beauty; yet you seek happiness by kissing a frog!” He tilted his green head to one side. “Anybody might think this was some kind of fairy tale. May I ask; can you swim?”

“Eh! No; actually” she replied, looking down.

The frog went on, “If this was, in fact, a fairy story, traditionally those things being offered may well have been granted without delay. However, in the case of happiness, this is not an instant thing…” He seemed to tilt his great head again, as if pondering. “No. Happiness, and the getting of it, takes time; and by the look of the hole on the side of your boat and considering how much lower it is in the water, together with the distance from the closest bank, I would venture to say that time is one thing you are about to run out of!”

With that he hopped across the pad and dived into the deep, clear water. An environment in which he was, unlike the snooty princess, completely comfortable, and in the satisfying knowledge that anybody reading an account of these events would learn that it is not wise to be rude when talking to frogs.

Home for me and mine while this time lasts.

A soft, warm home of thick snug blankets;

Of times of food and candlelights,

And memories of our pasts.

–

This is home. A small, proud home.

Wherein, a neat array of pots and clothes

Show that those here care much, for what they use and own.

–

This home, that was so short a time ago, a roll of cloth,

Now stands tall and straight and firm.

And we inside know well,

That these white folds of treated wall

Are not just so much cloth at all,

But part of that which forms in all –

Our home.

She was the kind of girl who would go to parties, get drunk, and go home by taxi.

The student party would be a welcome distraction for her… she needed a distraction. There was too much going on in her life right now. Too many decisions to make. Too many choices. Her best friend had said she should give herself a break from it all. “Look, you should just let it all go” she said. “Just jump in the car; come over and chill out for a while.” So, that’s what she did.

When she arrived it was all in full swing. Some dozen or so were dancing to music inside, while a group of students were gathered around a small bonfire in the back garden. Her friend got up and hugged her saying “Jeromy’s here, pontificating as usual.”

“What’s he on about?”

“He’s saying that electrons are both particles and waves. It’s quantum mechanics… I think.”

Her friend poured her a large cocktail. “Here, I’ll leave the bottle with you. Remember, let it all go.” She hugged her again and went back inside.

She joined the group with nods and smiles. She found a spot and sat cross-legged sipping and listening. He was expounding on the double slit experiment. She listened with an uncertain fascination. Half an hour and half a bottle of vodka later she plucked up the courage to join in.

She suddenly piped up. “Are you saying that the wave creates this interference pattern, with the result being that the electron approaches the two slits and goes through both, is that what you’re saying?

Jeromy looked across, pleased that somebody was challenging and not just listening. He raised his eyebrows and grinned at her. “Yep. That is what I’m saying.”

Her head shook slowly. “Sorry, but that really is hard to believe.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“Sure I do.” He paused, then threw his hands up saying. “It gets a lot worse when you consider that whenever the electron is observed it only passes through one of the two slits, in the same way that a particle would.”

“Now you’ve really lost me” she said.

“It’s simple” he went on, “you could say that the wave signifies all possibilities. On the other hand, when the electron is observed it is seen to make a choice.”

“Choice?” she echoed.

“Sure, one slit or the other.”

“OK. Are you saying that when something is observed you think it has a choice?”

“Sure, one slit or the other.” he repeated.

The group went on discussing and occasionally arguing the merits of what Jeromy was preaching for quite some time, while she sat pondering the whole idea and steadily emptying the bottle. When the fire had burned out and the band broke up she staggered to her feet and immediately fell over.

They put her in a taxi.

All the way home she was wondering, was she a wave or a particle?

She looked up to find the driver peering at her in the mirror.

“Oh! No!” she thought. “I’m being observed…”

The cold, rough ground scoured her bare feet as she ran. The night air ripped through the thin, white smock she was wearing, when they dragged her from her bed. Their cries of “Witch” echoed behind her as she scrambled, terrified and wild-eyed, up the wooded hill to escape their hatred and their torches.

She ran with a wild passion; driven by the murderous intent of her pursuers; those who hated her. Hated her for what they thought she was. Their angry chants and howls filled the midnight air.

Her chances of escaping the mob were thin and the girl knew it. She had seen this happen to so many others before her; and needless to say, none of them had made it. But she ran on anyway, panting her way up the steep slope; wild thorns from the thick underbrush slicing the bare skin of her young arms and legs. The maniacal crowd drew closer.

A jutting tree root snagged her foot and sent her sprawling to the ground. With flailing arms and legs she tumbled and rolled back down the thorn-infested slope. She tried to get up, but a burning sensation coursed down from hip to foot, leaving her in excruciating pain. Biting back pain and tears, she tried to clamber back up the slope on all fours, dragging her injured leg.

She looked back down over her shoulder and saw their torches, close now, and the shouting filled her head. A mass of flickering torches were inexorably racing towards her. Her hands and arms had lost their feeling, battered by thorns and rocks. Her breath was like fire in her chest. Tears streaked down what might otherwise have been a lovely, young face. The hunt was drawing to an end.

She collapsed and drew a bloody hand across her face; she was exhausted. The acrid stench of her own blood filled her nostrils, blocking out the natural scent of the forest around her. She lay panting; unable to push herself further. She had seen it all happen before, never imagining it would happen to her.

As they circled her frail body, the girl seemed momentarily unaware of their scowling faces, flickering down at her. Instead she stared up at the starlit sky and the full moon, and in some way seemed to draw strength from the beauty of the night. She slowly raised her arm and pointed to the heavens.

The mob hushed as she brought her blooded limb down, and with a strange movement of her hand she whispered her curse; the curse of the forest, the trees, the rocks; a curse powered by nature itself. She laid her head down… and slept.

When morning broke, soft rays of sun slowly lit a strange woodland scene.

A young girl slept peacefully on the grassy bank, surrounded by spent torches… and toads!