Author: Alexander Fawn

He hoped it would never happen again.

On that particular day there was more than the usual number of people in the house. Most of them he didn’t recognise at all. For him, it was all rather confusing and more than a little frightening. There was lots of talking and laughter and occasional shouting that jangled the nerves.

It was so cold in the garden. He wasn’t at all sure why he was there. He could smell things he had never smelt before. The noises were horrible.

Great coloured patterns filled the black sky, flashes so bright that they hurt his eyes. Bright orange streaks shooting upwards and making whooshing sounds as they go. As it grew dark he was carried everywhere. He cried a lot.

He hoped it would never happen again: but for everybody else it was just another Guy Fawkes Night.

Betty didn’t really support the idea of Halloween, she thought it was silly.

Nevertheless, she reluctantly answered the doorbell every time it went and handed out treats. So far she had done this four times and she was getting fed up with it. She complained to her husband, but he was watching a game on television, and was hardly aware of her comings and goings.

It rang again and she sighed. She picked up the small bowl of toffees and made her way to the front door. When she opened it she found a small witch waving a pillowcase. Betty paused and took it all in. Although not very tall, the witch appeared to be quite stocky, round in fact.

She waited for the obligatory ‘Trick or Treat’, but didn’t get one.

“Yes?” she said, figuring that the kid should at least speak up if they wanted a treat.

The witch shook her pillowcase and held it up.

Thoroughly fed up now, Betty repeated. “Yes?”

The witch just pointed into the sack and nodded.

Betty felt her anger growing. “Oh! I see. A mute witch! Well, I suppose that’s different.” She said sarcastically. “Can I help you?”

The witch squeaked very softly “Trick or treat!” paused, then added “Please.”

Betty leaned forward with her hand cupping her ear. “You’ll have to speak up, I’m hard of hearing.”

The witch said “Trick or treat.” louder this time.

Betty frowned, stepped closer and said “Sorry dear, I didn’t quite catch that.”

The witch squirmed a little and said “Trick or treat Mrs!”

“Wait a minute, I know you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes I do.”

“Trick or treat.”

“You’re Mrs Miller from the Post Office!”

“No I’m not.”

“Yes you are!”

“Trick or treat.”

“You are Mrs Miller, and I speak to you regularly at the counter.”

The witch shuffled and said “No you don’t!”

“Yes I do. Why are you all dressed up like this?”

“Lots of us are!”

“Yes, but they’re all children!”

“Trick or treat.”

“Look, just forget the ‘trick or treat’ for a bit. I know who you are. You’re Mrs Miller. Surely someone is going to recognise your voice sooner or later.”

The witch stood very still for a moment, then said “I normally have a voice-changer…” She coughed, then said a little louder, “A voice-changer.”

“A what?”

“A voice-changer. You know, one of those little gizmos that make your voice sound funny.”

Betty looked up and down the street, dropped her voice and said “Well, why aren’t you using it?”

“It broke.”

“Broke?”

“Yes, well, I suppose it broke. Anyway, it just stopped working and I didn’t have time to get another one.”

Betty straightened up and sighed. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it. “Just tell me this” she went on. “Why do you do it?”

The witch’s costume flapped. “I like chocolate.”

Betty’s eyebrows shot up. She stepped back with her hands on her hips. “I can’t believe I’m standing here talking to Mrs Miller. The same Mrs Miller I come and talk to every fortnight at the Post Office!”

The witch said in whisper “That’s me dear. You come in once a fortnight to send a Postal Order off to your son don’t you?”

Betty gasped, looked over her shoulder and pressed her finger to her lips. She said “Just a moment.” and went back into the house.

Two minutes later she returned with a giant-sized bar of chocolate. She opened the pillowcase and dropped it in. It fell in with a heavy thump.

The witch hugged the bag to her chest.

Betty nodded and winked. She smiled and she slowly shut the door saying “Best there are some things only we girls know about.”

Mrs Miller, the respectable lady who served behind the counter at the local Post Office, just loved chocolate!

 

The man sat looking out across the park, it was crowded. He was known to the police as a violent offender and a wife beater. In fact, he had run-ins with the police on an ongoing basis. It was widely known that he regularly beat his partner, but she never brought charges and nothing ever seemed to get done about it.

A little later, he sat in their tiny apartment humming merrily to himself. He stopped abruptly as she entered. The whole mood seemed to change. Within moments another blazing row struck up, with both of them making wild gestures and screaming at the top of their voices. Then it stopped as suddenly as it had started, he turned slowly and went into the corner and bent down, as if looking for something.

At first she just stood, frozen to the spot. It was as though she knew what was about to happen, but could do nothing about it. Then she began to shake; she shook all over. Her hands flew up and she backed off a little as he appeared holding a large club. She screamed even louder now as he approached her with it raised above his head.

With one mighty blow he brought it down on her. She fell badly, moaning and trying to get up. He stood over her now and began repeatedly bringing the club down onto her head. He beat her again and again and again… then, once more the whole thing seemed to freeze.

They both stood up; it actually looked for a moment as though Punch actually helped Judy get to her feet. Together they took a deep bow.

The tiny curtains jerked closed and all the children clapped. The place was filled with laughter… and… well… how strange is that?

 

She crawled out of bed after another sleepless night.

How could anybody be expected to sleep with that racket going on? Despite this, she managed to leave the flat on time and make her way to the office. The day didn’t go well. In fact, it went mostly wrong. She was very tired. She didn’t seem to be managing her department very well and she knew she had to do something about it.

At lunchtime she walked across to the park and sat eating her sandwiches as usual. She was due at her mother’s for tea that night. She thought about it. She strolled slowly back to the office, still thinking about it.

During the afternoon she called her mother to say that she might be a little late for tea, then she packed up and left early. She caught a bus into the city centre and made her way to a small bar that her brother-in-law had once told her about. He’d been drunk at the time but she was willing to give it a go.

It took a while to find it. It was tucked away in a side alley. As she entered she felt very much out of place. After all, she didn’t normally spend time in places like this. Although it was early evening there were several customers sitting at tables. She went up to the bar and ordered a drink and took it to a table. She sat quietly sipping her drink and thinking about her next move. After a few minutes she got up and approached the barman again.

“Are you Sam?”

He looked up. “That’s me.”

“Sam, I’ve been told you can put me in touch with a man called Angelo.”

The barman stopped washing glasses, dried his hands and walked slowly to the counter.

He looked her up and down and said “You’re asking for Angelo?”

“Yes, Angelo. I’m told he provides… special services.”

The barman went back to washing glasses under the sink. He was obviously thinking about it.

She waited patiently

He returned and said “Let me get this right. You want to get in touch with Angelo for his special services. Is that right?”

She nodded. “Yes. I’d like to meet up with him, if that’s OK.”

He chuckled. “Nobody meets up with Angelo. Hang on. If you’re serious, I’ll get you his number.”

She smiled and said “Thanks.”

He disappeared off to the side. When he came back he leant forward on the bar and said in a low voice “I don’t know who you are miss, and I don’t want to know, and you didn’t get this from me. Have you got that?”

She said “Yes. Got it.”

He slid a scrap of paper across the counter and turned away to serve another customer. When she returned to her table she opened it and saw that it was a telephone number. She finished her drink, slowly and thoughtfully, then left the bar.

She arrived at her mother’s late and spent what seemed to be an obligatory hour and a half, occasionally moving her fingers over the piece of paper in her pocket, before returning home.

When she got there she found a bottle and poured herself another drink. She sat staring at the number she’d been given. She finished her drink and dialled.

A man with a thick accent said “Hello.”

She paused, then asked “Are you Angelo?”

A few moments passed and he said “Yes. What do you want?”

She took a deep breath and said “Do you do dogs?”

These ancient pillars stand, with spreading hoods,

While Nature’s colours paint the woods.

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Surrounded now by towering trees,

Softly swaying in the breeze.

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Stepping over withered roots;

Ankles brushing grassy shoots.

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Shady patches with woodland spaces.

Windswept banks and silent places.

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Tangled branches form a web,

Keeping sunrays at an ebb.

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Reeds and grasses softly quiver,

Along the banks of stream and river.

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Smooth and rough and jagged trunks.

Paperbark hangs in stringy chunks.

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Arching branches and tangled leaves,

Lining pathways with shady eaves.

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Healthy trees standing gladly.

Withering trees drooping sadly.

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Some ripped and torn and showing strife;

Others pristine, green with life.

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Mighty boughs like arms stretched wide;

Others grounded, cast aside.

͂

Windblown needles send out a cry,

While large, soft leaves merely sigh.

͂

Flaking bark and stringy vines.

Twiggy patterns of all designs.

͂

Leaves gyrate in a churning wind;

Falling, leaving branches thinned.

͂

Broken pieces from nature’s store

Lie scattered across the forest floor.

͂

Ancient pillars, with spreading hoods,

All while Nature’s colours paint the woods.

Big Al sat fingering the cigarette he had wormed out of his impoverished senior workmate. He smiled at it. The early morning breeze billowed the machine shop blind and a glimpse of a shapely nurse faded amid the shrubs outside.

“Damn” he muttered. “How am I supposed to have lude thoughts about these nymphs, if I don’t get a proper look at them?”

He slumped back into his favourite smoking chair and contemplated the prospect of another day and the internal interplay between himself and those who would move about him in the hours to come.

He sat musing. Would he say this to him? If she didn’t interfere, was there a chance that those two might not do that, if such and such was said? What if those three could get together and agree not to say this to her anymore? What would be the affect if…?

He glanced down at the cigarette again and wondered what it was like to have to actually pay for the enjoyment of smoking.

The day passed much like any other.

Just then, his boss, a friendly, if out of pocket figure appeared in the doorway.

“If you’re staying on a bit mate, pull the door to when you go. Good night” he said, and shuffled off whistling something by Mozart. Al thought… happy enough fellow considering he had nothing to smoke on the way home.

Big Al looked at his watch, it was ten to six.

A door banged shut, more whistling, fading.

The cigarette was lit. He was cutting down. He took a long satisfying puff.

Big Al has wormed his way through another day, with minimal interruption.

Father Patrick O’Halloran was a much respected priest.

His village church was very old, and as such difficult to maintain; but this had no effect on the regularly high numbers in his congregation. The consensus among the village parishioners was that they were lucky to have him. He always found time to stop and talk, listen patiently to their problems and give holy guidance whenever it was needed.

It had been a day of stormy weather and as the evening came on it was still raining. Despite this, there had been a good turnout. This evening Father O’Halloran would be hearing confessions; a regular service he performed with such reverence that he always had at least a dozen in the queue, sitting in front of the rather ancient looking confessional. This evening was no different, at least, not in numbers. Fifteen sinners had occupied the front pew waiting their turn. They all knew each other of course, being a small village, so they were all very much aware that on this occasion they had a guest.

The stranger, who they noticed had actually come in shaking off his wet clothes halfway through the service, had taken a seat further along the bench away from the others, taking the last place in the line. Naturally, a few whispered comments ensued, mainly giving him the credit of allowing the locals to go first; giving them priority as it were. This resulted in an occasional smile being sent his way that seemed to cause him more than a little discomfort.

The stranger sat in an agitated manner until it was his turn. When the last person came out, he sat waiting for the last of the stragglers to leave the church. He then rose, and after taking a final look looking around, cautiously entered the confessional booth and sat down.

He coughed nervously, then announced “Bless me father, for I have sinned. My last confession was several years ago”.

The priest, who was almost invisible through the little mesh window, but clearly heard, said “What is it that you have done my son.”

“I have killed a man, Father”.

There was a long silence, followed by an audible sigh from the priest.

“Tell me more about your sin; how was it done, and…” then after a short pause the priest said “why was it done?”

The stranger leant a little closer to the dividing window and spoke in a softer voice. “It was done with a gun, Father”.

The priest sighed again.

“Yes, it was done with a gun and all of the instructions I received were followed to the letter. Of course, I did not know the man myself, I was following the instructions. I was paid… and I followed all of the instructions”.

The priest could now be heard whispering a prayer. He said “Thank you my son. Before I can grant you absolution, you must vow never to repeat this terrible sin. Do you promise this my son?”

“I do Father. I will never commit such a dreadful sin again. As God is my witness, never again”.

“Very good”. The priest sounded satisfied with this response.

“For your penance, say fifty Hail Marys every day for the remainder of this year. Will you do this?”

“Yes Father I will”.

“God bless you my son”.

With this, the priest uttered his prayer of absolution.

After a further awkward silence the man said. “Is that it Patrick? Is everything OK now?”

“That’s fine Mikey, just fine. That sews it up neatly. I do have to ask you one more thing before you leave… Did he suffer?”

“No, not at all Patrick. It really was all done exactly as you instructed”.

“Thank you Mikey, you be on your way now. You mind the roads, they can be treacherous in this filthy weather, and you’ve a long drive in front of you”.

The family car is travelling along the highway, on its way to the beach for a few hours of relaxation. Tom is driving, his wife, Jean, sits beside him. In the back seat is Bubs, strapped into a child-seat and Pooch, the family dog, sits bolt upright watching the passing scenery.

Tom and Jean have just had words and the car has fallen silent.

Jean thinks: God! It’s so typical of him, to take us all out like this and have no idea where the petrol stations are.

Tom thinks: What the hell was she going on about? We’ve still got well over a quarter of a tank. We’re on a main road for heaven’s sake! There must be dozens of garages further along.

Pooch thinks: Don’t like it when they talk so loud. I wish this thing next to me would stop those horrible gurgling noises. What sort of thing is it anyway? It’s so small; and it smells funny.

Bubs thinks: This person next to me is really ugly, and he dribbles more than me! He doesn’t seem to have any skin. His eyes and mouth are really strange. He doesn’t’ say much; he only coughs.

Jean thinks: I bet he’s forgotten that Bubs is going to need a feed well before we get there. We’ll probably go through the whole ritual of draping towels around the car while I’m breast feeding.

Tom thinks: I hope we start back in time to watch tonight’s game. I daren’t say that, of course. I’ll just stress the point that I don’t like driving in the dark.

Pooch thinks: I wonder why this person doesn’t have any hair. He leans across for a better look.

Bubs thinks: His face is very big, and his eyes are really black and shiny. I wonder what they are made of? Bubs shoves a finger into the closest eye.

Pooch yelps. Bubs starts bawling, Jean screams and Tom slams on the brakes.

Jean thinks: I knew something like this would happen.

Bubs thinks: We’ve stopped. Good. I’m hungry.

Pooch thinks: Jees! That hurts. I won’t enjoy the view so much now. Not with one eye closed, I won’t.

Tom thinks: Next time, we’ll take the bus…

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!