Author: Alexander Fawn

The mood; it just swings back and forth.
He knows what it is, knows that there is an understanding of it. He is told that it is far more common than you might think. This doesn’t help. He experiences heightened feelings of abundant energy, he is bursting with creativity, riding on a cloud of euphoria. Then, he is falling into a deep low of agitation and anxiety, withdrawn and sullen, worthless and unable to cope. He is capable of absolutely anything. He finds everything a chore. He is invincible. He is worthless. Happy. Sad. Happy. Sad. Sometimes he doesn’t notice, doesn’t see the shift; doesn’t feel the swing from the high to the low and back again. Surely, he thinks, every one of us must be just a little bit bipolar, although the experts say no.
He only knows that the pendulum swings.

More so for some, less for others.
Go figure…

It was Sunday and they were both lounging.
She was sprawled on the living room couch, studying. He came in looking for something.
He asked, “Honey, have you seen the television magazine?”
She stirred a little. “…there are those among us, who, when finding themselves in any strange or unexpected situation, are more likely to lose all sense of time and place…”
He froze. “Is that your answer?”
“Eh?”
“The TV mag?”
“No. Sorry! I was reading this treatise. I was just reading it out; thought you might be interested.”
Ignoring this, he said, “I’ve looked all over.
She lowered her papers. “Don’t you remember, we decided to cancel? We said it wasn’t worth getting.” She raised her eyebrows. “Don’t you remember?” she repeated. “We talked about it.”
Disappointed, he shrugged and said, “Vaguely.”
She grinned. “You see? Time and place.”
“What?”
“The treatise… time and place.”
He stood frowning.
“The mag,” she went on, “cancelled a week ago; time. Not here; place.”
He took on a pained expression. “Bit of a stretch, wouldn’t you say?”
She shook her head. “Not really. I could go further.”
“Go on.”
“OK,” she said, obviously enjoying herself, “TV mags; telling you when stuff is on; time, and what channels to go to: place!”
“Right,” he said, and left her to it.
In the other room, he whispered, “I must ask when her Open University finishes, but not now.”

The young guy that lived at number seventeen got a kick out of creating a flowerbed.

Although he and his friend were only renting, he’d found that spending time preparing the patch of ground at the front and choosing a variety of plants was a relaxing hobby. His daily grind at the pharmacy, preparing prescriptions was a full-on job and the gardening project had been just the thing to provide an enjoyable distraction. That had been the case until the old guy across the street, who lived on his own, decided to get a dog for company. It was a Jack Russell Terrier. From day one it had been regularly finding its way into the garden where it spent time digging up the flowerbed! Despite all attempts to keep him out, the offending animal kept finding a way in. Naturally, he’d been across and explained what was happening to the owner. This had fallen on deaf ears. In fact, the grumpy old man had been positively rude to him.
That afternoon, his flat-mate found him peering through the curtains.
“Something wrong?”
“No. It’s just the guy across the street, calling for his dog. It’s been gone all day.” He snorted. “The little bugger won’t be digging up my flowerbed in a hurry, I can tell you that.”
“He won’t?”
“Nah. I fixed it.”
“How’s that?”
“I knocked him out.”
“You what?”
“Don’t mean literally, just gave him a nice long sleep last night.”
“How’d you do that?”
“Crushed up a few pills, slit a sausage open and laced it with the powder. He loved it!”
“How’d you know how to do that?”
He grinned. “An Applied Science majoring in Chemistry helped.”
“What d’yer do with him?”
“Put him in the boot and drove out to the truck stop. I found a Ute with an out of state registration. It had a tarp pulled over a pile of stuff in the back. I just released a corner and dropped the bugger in.”
“Ouch! That was a bit cruel, wasn’t it?”
“Not really. I’m sure somebody’ll give him a good home, wherever he ends up.”
He shrugged and shook his head.
“Just hope for their sake, they don’t have a flower bed.”

The old man who used to live at number eighteen had always had strong views about taxes.
In fact, although it seems quite impossible, he went through his entire working life without ever paying any of them. He was always adamant about the notion that everything would tick along perfectly well without them. Of course, just like anyone else, he received demands. Whenever he received one of these he would send off a lengthy letter, explaining in a great amount of detail why he shouldn’t have to pay. This always went the same way; it always resulted in him receiving no reply. He imagined that whoever received it couldn’t handle it and put it in some ‘too hard’ basket that was probably labelled ‘pending’. Whatever the case, he was able to ‘fly under the radar’ year after year. This had been the way of it right up to the point when the van showed up.

It was a little after six in the morning when a white van, similar to an ambulance, pulled into his driveway. Two burly young men wearing white coats got out and rang his doorbell. They did this several times, because this actually brought the old guy out of a deep sleep. It was some time before he answered the door. The woman opposite, always an early riser, watched the goings on from her front window. An activity that made her the centre of attention for several weeks that followed.
As soon as the door opened, the men quickly disappeared inside, causing the front door to slam as they did. Shouting could be heard briefly, then it stopped. Moments later the old man appeared, still in his dressing gown and supported by the two men either side. He was loaded into the back of the vehicle. After making an obvious effort to shut the back doors as quietly as possible, the men jumped in and drove away soundlessly.
Put simply, he was never seen or heard from again…

The security agency knew it had a mole.
It had to be one of their top three operatives. The director had a solution. It was a full proof way of weeding out the agent that had been leaking agency information. The assistant director wasn’t happy with the plan, but the director went ahead and called the two men and one woman to his office. He handed them each an envelope.

Each one contained the name of one of the others. They were told to go down into the basement and wait. They were there for a few minutes before the lights went out. Gunshots could be heard, then silence.
Shortly afterwards, an unhappy assistant director entered the director’s office, saying, “They’re all dead!”
“I know,” said the director, “but it had to be one of them.”

I saw her come into the shop with her mother.
They walked up and down the aisles for a while, looking at toys. The girl was peering at things closely. She seemed nice. After a while, the shopkeeper offered his help. “Hello. Were you looking for anything in particular?” he asked. The woman nodded. “Yes. My daughter likes those little wooden dolls,” she smiled at her daughter, “actually, she collects them. They seem to be quite popular at the moment. Do you have any?” “Oh! Yes.” he replied. “We certainly do. They’re down in the back corner. Let me show you.” He led the way.
I could hear them approach. When she saw that they had a variety of dolls she clapped her hands.
As she went past… I rattled.

In this story there is a forsaken forest, no longer visited by those who know its dark secret.

In this forest there is a clearing, where none of the creatures that live in the forest ever venture. In the clearing stands a large and long abandoned mansion that none have entered for many years. In the mansion there is an attic, dusty and unlit, save for one tiny window. In the attic there is a cupboard that has remained undisturbed and full of family artefacts since the building was vacated. In the cupboard there is a small metal chest. In the chest there is a boy’s school satchel. In the satchel there is, what used to be, a schoolboy’s best loved book. In the book there are many adventure stories. In the book’s pages there is a bookmark, placed there to indicate his favourite story. In this story there is a forsaken forest, no longer visited by those who know its dark secret.
In this story…

Into the secret chamber go,
With random unused thoughts about.
All outer sounds are stilled.
All worldly lights are out.

Slow the breath, rest the eyes.
A solemn submission to another world.
To whatever depth of intellect required.
All corporal matters soon unfurled.

Maybe rocking gently in a sea of grace,
Allowing the soft swish of spray,
Drifting between crests of foam,
Cogent thoughts all float away.

Then, as this dreamland dwindles,
Tempered time also drifts away.
From that sleep, wakening,
To this, the miracle of day.

They met in a bar.
He was definitely charming. He explained that he was a talent scout for a film company and was always on the lookout for good-looking women that could be auditioned at his agency’s studio. After a couple of drinks and small talk, they had a long discussion about her current work, where she was brought up and what ambitions she might have about entering the movie industry. In the main, she was as honest as she could be about herself, without giving him too much by way of private information. She took his card, which was certainly impressive. It said that he was the senior partner of a talent scouting and auditioning agency, with offices around the country. She said she would take the time to consider whether she was up to making such a major move in her life and give him a call in the next day or two. He seemed to be happy with that and agreed to the idea that for the time being he would only make a note of her mobile phone number.
She left the bar well before closing time and drove to her flat. It had been a busy day in the office, apart from the meeting with the scout. She was tired and determined not to turn in too late. After catching up with a televised news recording and making a light supper, she washed up and tidied, before getting some shut-eye.

It was around then that her doorbell rang. Probably because of her tiredness, she opened the door without hesitation.
It was him; the scout. He stood there grinning with a bottle of wine held up. He explained that he had to visit another of their agency offices and wouldn’t be around to arrange an audition for her. He suggested that they could do it tonight before he left. With that, he pushed passed her into the flat.
He soon found a couple of glasses and proceeded to pour the drinks while she stood rather dazed. It had all happened so fast. She was asking herself why she had let him in, in fact, why did she even answer the door? She really must be exhausted. Now, here he is, she thought, turning up uninvited, pouring drinks.
He was definitely a charmer. He was offering her the world, wasn’t he? It was so good of him, and so selfless to come calling at this time of night, wasn’t it? She didn’t think so. She was getting even more tired… tired of him!
Presumably, nobody knew he was there… or why.
He approached, holding out a full glass. She took it while he brushed passed her and went out onto the balcony, complimenting her as he did, on the splendid night view she had from twenty-two stories up.
She knew the bushes down below at the back of the tower would probably mean a silent landing, although fatal.
She took a sip of wine, pushed him off the balcony and went to bed.

He can usually avoid that part of town easily.
The road itself isn’t often part of his route. When it is, with a bit of thought he can come up with another way to make the delivery. After all, he’d been doing the job for over ten years now and was familiar with the town’s layout. He had always liked driving and the work was easy. Just pick up parcels from the depot and make his way around town, sometimes a little beyond, to deliver, get signatures on his gizmo and go back for more. The hours were good and the people in the office were an easy going bunch. Anyway, in the last six years he has only had to make a delivery to Hayward Street twice. On the second occasion it was a late one and it was dark. That had made it worse… a lot worse.

In fact, at the time he had the idea that if it happened a third time, he would see whether he could get a desk job at the depot. He felt his chances were pretty good. He had proved himself to be a good and reliable employee and he certainly knew all the streets and scheduling delivery routes would be a doddle.
He hadn’t seen the old lady. It was dark, and that particular street was not well lit. She must have been wearing something black; not that he ever found out. It was only her face he saw. An old, wrinkled face with terrified eyes, lit up by his headlamps. Then came the thump. A sound that he would take to his grave.
Would he still have a job if he’d reported it, if he’d stopped to make sure?
He was making a U-turn. He had taken the wrong road back at the junction. This way he wouldn’t have to drive through that street.
That was alright.
He knew a better way…