Author: Alexander Fawn

Ronald stood with the larder door open, staring in.

This memory thing was getting really bad. He was finding that more and more he would open a door, a cupboard or a drawer and stare at the contents with no idea what it was that he went there for. There was a name for the condition but he could never remember it.

Last week he was in the garage – lots of room in there now because after the last incident he wasn’t allowed to drive any more – anyway, he was in the garage trying to remember what he wanted in there. After several agonising minutes it came to him that he was looking for milk. So he went back into the house very annoyed because being away so long his tea was bound to be stone cold; and he hated cold tea. So, it turned out that when he got back that wasn’t a problem, because he hadn’t poured it. In fact, he hadn’t even boiled the kettle! He was getting really thirsty by now so he decided to just have a glass of milk instead, so he went back into the garage to get it!

Ronald knew this was an age-related condition. It had a name but he couldn’t remember it. He had been given a pamphlet at the surgery that described the problem, with a list of really useful hints all aimed at helping people cope with… with whatever this thing was called. Anyway, he went looking for it the other day, but couldn’t figure out where he had put it.

Today should be OK though. His friend, what’s-his-name, comes in twice a week just to see that he’s all right. He could be coming today, but Ronald wasn’t sure what day it was. Not what day it was right now, but what day it was that his friend looked in. Although, now he came to think of it he didn’t actually know what day of the week it was right now; so even if he could remember the days that his friend came round, he wouldn’t know whether today was one of them.

Anyway, he was still staring into the larder when he heard the front door bell go. On his third attempt he found the front door and peered through the little spy-hole. As he didn’t recognise the lady standing there he asked who was there. The woman said “Susan” and he asked “Susan who?” and she said “Dad, it’s Susan your daughter” and he let her in.

While she was unpacking the groceries she said he had missed a call earlier when he was in the garage. She then asked what he was doing out there anyway, and he said that he couldn’t find whatever it was that he went out there for and that it wasn’t there last week either. She said never mind, she didn’t know who was calling but they just asked for Ronald. He said “Ronald who?” and she said “Ronald, you Dad, you’re Ronald”, and he said he liked the name and she said yes she had always liked it too.

She said she would put stuff away and make them a nice cup of tea and take it through to the lounge. Several minutes later he found the lounge and sat down. She said “Are you happy Dad?” He smiled and said “I can’t remember”.

 

They were having another of their little tiffs.

They were probably no different than most married couples. He was saying “Yes it does” and she was in the kitchen saying “No it doesn’t.”

He put down the newspaper and said “It’s that old glass-half-empty thing with you isn’t it?”

She came to the door and said “What do you mean?”

“Well, as a general rule you tend to take the half-empty look at things.”

She went to respond but he went on. “I am quite willing to admit that generally speaking I happily, and quite possibly blindly, go through life with a constant glass-half-full attitude. You, on the other hand my love, tend to be more cautious about playing down any possible pitfalls life may confront us with. In other words, you see things as glass-half-empty. I guess it’s all about your worldview really.”

“Worldview?”

“Sure, a person’s fundamental cognitive orientation: one that encompasses the entirety of an individual’s point of view.”

She peered around the door again and saw that he was holding his mobile phone. “You’re looking all this stuff up on your phone, aren’t you?”

“Of course! Anyway, that’s the way I see it.”

They both fell silent for a while. Whereas these subtle variations in how life was being looked at by each of them had never been a real problem, the conversation was definitely becoming more deep and meaningful on this occasion.

She shrugged her shoulders and returned to her cooking. After a few moments she called out “Going back to this glass-half-full thing; are you sure it’s as simple as comparing these two opposing points of view.”

He thought for a moment and said “You know, that’s the funny thing about this water-in-the-glass analogy, they’re not really opposites at all. I mean… to say that a glass is either half full or half empty is actually saying the same thing.”

She carried on stirring the pot. He picked up the paper, only to put it down again. “Well, you know, this all comes down to symbiosis.”

“Symbi what?”

“Symbiosis.”

“Go on.”

“Yes, symbiosis, the term commonly describes close and often long-term interactions between different biological species. It’s about organisms that live in a mutually beneficial and close association with each other. Like us, if you like.”

She appeared again, this time waving a spoon. “But that doesn’t really make sense when you think about it.”

“Why not?”

“Well, because saying two things, or organs, or peoples can be mutually beneficial and then comparing that with fact that glasses half full and half empty are the same just doesn’t gel somehow.”

“Yes it does.”

“No it doesn’t.”

“Yes it does.”

“No it doesn’t…”

They simply had to have it, it was the only way.

If he could only gain entrance to the room he was convinced the disaster could be avoided. He tried the door, and to his amazement it was unlocked. He pushed it open and entered slowly. He found the light switch; the room was a clean and orderly lounge room. Two settees faced each other across a low coffee table sitting on a rug. An entertainment centre sat in one corner with another door leading off to other rooms. There was an elegant light fitting, and an assortment of pictures around the walls.

The room was pleasant enough, but what really struck him, what immediately took his breath away was the curtained window. It was hung with a pair of beautiful full length curtains. The curtains looked very expensive and made from a particularly fine damask. He moved into the room slowly and walked across to them. He felt the heaviness of the cloth; it put him in mind of his uncle’s shop when he was a kid… making a bit of pocket money on the weekend.

It was during this time that he found he had a strong liking for curtains made from this material. It was nearly always more expensive than any other material in the shop, and as result not a lot of it was sold. He would watch customers stop and feel the texture. He would listen to their comments. He membered how his uncle was forever talking about the decorative effect of drapery, and how important curtains were in a room.

Even now he could remember some of the dos and don’ts his uncle would repeat like some sort of sacred mantra. Only ever do a warm hand wash, never bleach, always drip dry in the shade, no ringing or rubbing, don’t tumble dry, only ever use a warm iron, and never dry clean them. He could actually hear his uncle saying that. Never dry clean them!

He stepped back to admire them. Each curtain was full-length with two matching tie-backs, and matching pelmets, all in a carefully understated blend of beige and gold. The unique repeating of the floral motif was a piece of art in itself. They had obviously been chosen to match the general ambiance of the room. Every detail showed the fact that they had been professionally made.

Suddenly, he was brought out of his reverie by a noise; not loud, but a noise coming from another room. He should get on with… he held the thought, but he couldn’t complete it. What should he do? What had he come here to do? He knew it was important, and he… Another noise, this time louder. Somebody was obviously approaching from another room.

He moved as quickly as possible to the door. He went through it without making a noise.

Out in the hallway his lookout whispered “Did you get it?”

“Get What?”

Mitch was a bully. He had always been a bully. They were in the playground now arguing. As he brought his fist down towards the little girl’s face, something happened. He didn’t know what, but something had certainly happened…

On the other side of the playground the visitor smiled. He looked around. He liked it here. He was a traveller, but he occasionally came across a place that looked interesting. A place that seemed to have so much potential, like this one. When that happened he would hang around awhile. He loved watching the kids; looking on, unseen.

School had just got out. It was a large school, and a huge, bustling mass of bodies came teeming out onto the front footpath. Most of the kids were running, laughing, shouting to each other, swinging their bags around. Some made their way to the bus stop while others went over to the park to carry on playing and taking the opportunity to catch up with friends from other classes they hadn’t seen all day.

They left a commotion behind them in a far corner of the playground, where a teacher was bent over the body of a small boy. He was looking around frantically as he spoke into his mobile. Another teacher stood back a little, comforting a small girl who just couldn’t stop sobbing. Yes. He loved watching them.

Mitch found himself sprawled on a hot, gravely floor. He opened his eyes to the dark and blinked. He was faintly aware of a figure nearby, but couldn’t make it out. The only source of light came from the horizon; a great orange glow with flames licking up into a black sky. There was a horrible stench in the place but he didn’t recognise it. The figure moved a little closer but said nothing. Its empty eye sockets seemed to pick up the light and emitted a faint glimmer.

Mitch suddenly recognised the Reaper for what he was. Even at his tender age he knew that he had been taken. He had been brought down into the terrible depths of Hell. He knew that he was now about to be cast into the great, fiery, bottomless pit. It was Mitch’s turn to sob.

Later, in the lab, two men stood by the metal table looking at Mitch’s sad little body.

The inspector slowly shook his head. “I just don’t get it.” He looked up at the man washing his hands. “This doesn’t make sense to me. How could this happen?”

“It does. Oh yes, cases of kids around seven and eight suffering a sudden heart attack. Of course, it is by no means common, but it does happen.”

The inspector scratched his neck. “Yes, but six in only two weeks?”

A poet once wrote about the lives of clouds;

From their lifeless point of view.

And are such notions merely illusory?

Can these feelings ever be true?

–

He thought that clouds watched men come and go on Earth;

Floating there, they watch the moon and seas.

Can it be that such things, quite inanimate,

Interact in such ways as they please?

–

Does a paperweight become neurotic when it’s weighing nothing down?

Does a guitar cringe when it is out of tune, does it really know?

Does a damp towel consider it has been abused, when left in a heap on the floor?

It all seems quite capricious, how far do these ideas go?

–

When scissors are closed in a silent room, do they whisper to themselves?

Can a snow-globe get dizzy when shaken again and again?

Does the forgotten doll on a dusty shelf pine for those long gone hugs?

Does a loosened rock quake with the sound of the coming rain?

–

Does a staple remover ever tire of its use, of continually undoing the done?

Does the bursting balloon know in that instant that all past admiration is blown?

Does a doorknob ever get giddy, being twisted back and forth?

Do steps become proud of their age, with worn dips shaping their stone?

–

Does a sleeping pill ever feel sad that it has to be used at all?

Can the horse on a Merry-Go-Round ever feel the centrifugal force?

Does a toothbrush quietly wince and groan when teeth are brushed too hard?

Does an apple left to rot in the grass ever feel remorse?

–

Does a notepad ever wonder what will be written next?

Does the silver dome of a cooking pot really hate the heat?

Does a toothpick feel unfulfilled when it breaks while doing its job?

Can a bed really blush when a child wets its sheet?

–

Does a cup ever have a preference about being filled with coffee or tea?

Does a fridge ever feel bilious when food has gone off in there?

Does an alarm clock ever get angry when its owner goes back to sleep?

Does a chess-piece sigh with annoyance when placed on a threatened square?

–

Such fanciful ideas are only born by those conjuring with pen and wit.

A nonsense, yes; but for a poet, this may well be the fashion.

Placing such feelings, where they are rarely seen to fit,

Imbues nonsense with a passion.

She found him in the living room immersed in the Sunday paper.

She stood in the doorway for a while. He pretended not to notice. He knew what she was about to say and was secretly enjoying the moment. He looked up. “Did you want something Honey?”

She bobbed her head around and said “You know what next week is, don’t you?”

He frowned and said “Next week? Let me think; local elections? No that’s too soon thank the Lord.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

“Oh! Come on. Stop playing around. You know it’s Christmas.”

“Oh! Really?”

“Yes really. What do you want?”

He took on a painful grimace and she sighed. “It’s always the same, I never know what to get you; and you don’t exactly help.”

He shook his head smiling. “Not this time Honey, I’ve got a list.”

“You’ve got a list! I don’t believe it.”

He sniggered and dug into his back pocket bringing out a folded sheet of paper.

Impressed, she sat down attentively, saying “OK. Let’s hear it.”

Unfolding it carefully he cleared his throat and read.

“I want the dog across the road to stop barking at night.”

“I want the government to bring in a two day week.”

“I want someone in authority to explain simply what superannuation is.”

“I want all of the parking meters in town ripped out.”

“I want Jim Bromley brought back from the dead so he can repay the 163 dollars he owes me.”

“I want to be several years younger.”

“I want politicians to stop telling lies.”

“I want everybody in the world to have one square meal a day.”

“I want to live forever.”

“I want all the governments in the world to ban wars, either that or a new pair of slippers.”

She started “Well, I’m not sure about…”

He interrupted her. “No. Don’t tell me anything. Surprise me!”

John was in a pensive mood.

Despite the chill in the air, he stood gazing up at the moon. As he did, the thought suddenly struck him that he was looking at the very same moon that Antonio Vivaldi had looked at. He shivered with the full realisation of this unavoidable truth. In fact, so struck was he, that it caused him to turn and see the man, the composer, Vivaldi, standing next to him. He was dressed in a manner to be expected, plus a wig. He too was staring up into the heavens.

Vivaldi didn’t seem to notice him at first, then said “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It is, but I’m not sure you should be here.”

Vivaldi smiled and said in a soft voice “Ah! The imagination is a powerful thing.” He turned and said “I don’t have to stay.”

“No! Please… stay. I have to tell you… it sounds pretty weak, but I am a great fan of your music… all of your music.”

“That’s nice. I would certainly like to think I had fans.”

Suddenly, confused, John said “Hold on; I just used the word fan, and you understood it!”

“Of course.”

“Why of course? You were composing the Four Seasons in 1725, while the word fan, being an abbreviation of fanatic, wasn’t thought of until, I don’t know, the late eighteen hundreds probably.

“Your point?”

“My point is you could not possibly know about it.”

“Ah! I see what you are getting at. I think there must be a lot you don’t understand about summoning.”

“Summoning?”

“Oh! Yes; that’s what you did you see. You summoned me.”

John reflected on this statement, then asked “Does this sort of thing happen very often?”

“No, not really. Not to me anyway. Twice before, or maybe three times, it nearly happened, but the person trying to summon me just didn’t get it right I suppose.”

“How does it all work?”

“I’m not sure really. I have full memories of my lifetime and a natural understanding of this present time; such as the date, your clothes and mode of speech, and so on, but…” he paused, shaking his head.

“But?”

“But there’s nothing in between.”

“Wow! In that case, there is so much to tell you. I mean, I’m no scholar, not at all, but I’ve always been interested in classical music, even as a kid. What do you want to know?”

Vivaldi chuckled. “If only it were that simple… there’s the time factor.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, my time here is limited.”

“Oh! How long have we got?”

“I don’t know, sorry. Not long though.” He looked back at the sky and said “Do you want to tell me what’s been going on or ask me questions?”

John shook his head. “I wouldn’t know where to start, you’d know all about the renaissance period of course.”

“Yes, an important time that preceded me.”

“Well, your era was later named the Baroque Period.”

Vivaldi smiled. “Baroque Period, I like that!”

John was pleased to be able to give him something; something in return for being here. “It lasted for well over a century.” He stopped abruptly and waved his hand around. “How long have we got? Oh! Sorry, you don’t know do you? But are we talking about minutes, hours, days?

Vivaldi shook his head. “Minutes perhaps.”

John went on, feeling more than a little silly. “The harpsichord certainly came into its own during your life-time. But listen, all this is recorded, we don’t need to go over that. Tell me what you didn’t like about your life, after all you were very successful as a composer and you worked as a priest… The Red Priest in fact; because of your hair.”

Vivaldi lifted his wig for a moment.

“Can’t see, sorry, too dark. I’ll take your word for it. Anyway, I’m pretty sure all the references to it can’t be wrong.” He sighed. “There is so much to say and ask. But like I said, what didn’t you like about it all.”

“Ah! That’s easy. Asthma. That’s what you call it now, but back then it was simply known as a ‘tightness of the chest’. It actually prevented me from being able to chant; it was with me from the day I was born.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know. Do we, I mean we of this time, know about that?”

“Yes. It seems that some of your historians have made mention of it.”

“I did notice that your voice was changing…wheezing a bit.”

“Yes. The cold. Always brings it on for me; it’s my main trigger, you would say. It’s probably best if I leave you now. Nice talking to you John.”

“You know my name then?”

“Of course; I know all about you… you summoned me.”

“Oh! OK. How does it work then; the opposite of summoning I mean.”

“Well, let’s just gaze up at the moon together.”

As they did this, John heard Vivaldi cough… and he was gone.

The doorbell went and Mrs Johnson went through the hall to answer it.

A man in a suit and tie, holding a briefcase, stood on the step.

She frowned. “Can I help you?”

“Hello. Yes, my name is Unsworth, Colin Unsworth from the Trowbridge Insurance Society. I’m here to meet Tony, your husband I presume.”

“Oh! Yes, of course. Sorry, John did say you were calling, I think you’re a little early?” He nodded. “Please come in. It’s a dreadful night.”

“Thank you” he stepped in saying “Yes, dreadful. It’s a lot warmer in here,” he smiled.

She looked at her watch. ‘Look it’s a bit awkward’ she said. “He really can’t be disturbed at the moment. He won’t be free for at least a quarter of an hour, would rather come back, or just call him and make another appointment?”

“Well, to be honest, I don’t live in this part of town and this is my last call for the day, so, if it’s OK I’ll just wait.”

“That’s fine then” she ushered him to a chair. “Now, if you don’t mind sitting here, he shouldn’t be too long. I do have things to do. Is it OK if I leave you?”

He smiled “Yes, that’s fine, thanks.”

The lady of the house disappeared through a far doorway.

The salesman put his case down between his feet and after glancing at his own watch, settled down for a wait.

He could hear murmuring coming through the closed door alongside of him, catching the odd word from time to time. After a minute or two his found himself becoming engrossed in the conversation and carefully moved his chair a little closer.

In the room, Tony looked down at the owl.

“You know, nobody would believe that this conversation could possibly take place.”

The owl looked up “Of course I know that. Anyway, what did you want to talk about? It’s getting dark, and there are things I would rather be doing.”

“Oh! Yes, of course. You catch and eat mice I believe?”

The owl twitched and shook its head. “Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I am not at all sure what I am doing here. Further, I don’t know how it has come about that we are actually talking to each other.” It opened its wings slightly and ruffled them. The man said “Fair enough, you’ve done very well this time.” and gave a chuckle. Moments later the salesman could hear things being moved around.

He sat up with a jerk as the woman appeared looking down at her watch. He was rather embarrassed, but pretty sure she hadn’t seen him leaning into the door.

She came forward smiling. “Sorry you had to wait, and I’m sure you think me very ill-mannered, I didn’t offer you a cup of tea or anything.”

He shook his head. “No. That’s OK.”

“Alright then, he should be out in a couple of minutes.”

As she turned to go, he coughed politely, “Before you go, I was rather curious. Is your husband a doctor?”

She laughed. “No, whatever made you think that?”

“Well, no I don’t suppose…”

She could see he was feeling awkward. As she left the hall she laughed again and said. ‘He obviously didn’t tell you, he’s a ventriloquist.”

The evening was warm.

He found a nice spot in the dunes where they could lay down and stare up into the darkening sky. This had always been a favourite spot for them. He didn’t know how many years they had been doing it. Too many to remember.

They lay chatting and laughing in low whispers. The sky was completely black now, with a million pin points of light to look at. The wash of nearby waves were a background to the array of stars. Hours passed off into the night.

Finally, the light-hearted mood changed abruptly when she turned her head. “Do you ever think about death?”

“No, not really” he replied. The subject took him by surprise. “I guess I don’t really want to think about it.”

“You should.”

“Should I?”

“Yes, but it’s OK. I understand.”

Tears welled up in his eyes. He felt foolish. He brushed them away and gave an insane giggle as he did it.

“You’re laughing?”

“Yes, sorry.”

“But why? What is it?”

“I just can’t believe you’re gone.”

 

 

Christmas is in many a place,

In the country and the town.

It’s found up and down the street:

On the highway and on the down.

–

It’s Christmas in a mansion.

It’s Christmas on the farm.

It’s Christmas in a workplace.

To each it spreads its charm.

–

It’s Christmas in a cottage.

It’s Christmas when you fly.

It’s Christmas in a child’s bedroom,

On that you can rely.

–

It’s Christmas for a beggar.

It’s Christmas for a king

It’s Christmas for both young and old.

It’s always a special thing.

–

It’s Christmas in the sweltering heat.

It’s Christmas in the snow.

It started in a stable,

A long, long time ago.

–

It’s Christmas on the hillside.

It’s Christmas in the wood.

It’s Christmas in the charity house,

Serving the common good.

–

It’s Christmas in Canada.

It’s Christmas in Japan.

It’s Christmas in Bethlehem;

Where it all began.

–

Christmas comes in a card or a gift;

In music, verse and art.

But the very best Christmas of them all…

Is the Christmas in the heart!