Author: Alexander Fawn

The father and son met the neighbour in the shopping centre.

The two men hadn’t seen each other for a while and they agreed to sit in the coffee shop and catch up before the man did his shopping. The boy knew that the neighbour wrote in a blog and wanted to know more. After a few minutes of chatting, the man explained that his son would no doubt like to find out more about the neighbour’s blog. He suggested that he go off and do his shopping while they talked. This was agreed to and the father left.

At first, the boy looked a bit nervous. Then, driven by curiosity, he said, “I understand you write stuff for your blog”

The neighbour smiled. “That’s right.”

“What sort of stuff?”

“What type of writing, is that what you mean?”

The boy’s head wobbled. “I suppose so.”

“Well, I’d have to say creative. Creative writing draws on the imagination to get across some kind of narrative or story.”

“Are there other types?”

“There are, but I have to tell you there are different opinions about how many types there are, up to a dozen, but there are four broad categories commonly accepted.”

“What are they?”

The man raised his eyebrows. “Do you really want to know?”

“Yes. It’s my favourite subject at school.”

“I see. So, that’s why you’re so interested?”

The reply came as a resounding, “Yes.”

“OK. Types. Well, you could say there are four broad categories; persuasive, expository, descriptive and narrative.”

The boy frowned.

The man went on. “The first two are styles that I don’t use. Persuasive writing attempts to influence the reader. It tries to bring the reader around to the writer’s point of view, such as advertising or job applications, for example.”

The boy brightened. “Yes, I see that.”

“Good. Then there’s expository. This style of writing is aimed at informing or explaining some particular subject. The sort of thing you’d find in text books or instruction manuals; this style attempts to expose or uncover the facts, if you like.”

The other nods. “OK.”

“OK. That leaves descriptive and narrative. I use both of these.”

“Because you write short stories,” the boy said.

“Yes. A descriptive style is easy to understand. With descriptive writing you are painting a picture. The writer makes the reader feel that they are there, that they can actually see the person and where the person is.”

The boy nods slowly, showing that he understands.

“Finally,” the other goes on, “there’s narrative. Narrative is when the writer tells a story. My favourite style, as it happens. It can be fact or fiction. This style is commonly found in novels. Usually, there’s a main character in some particular setting, who experiences something interesting or significant. How this all plays out is called the plot. The writer can make themselves out to be the person they are writing about, and from another point of view, the reader can imagine themselves to be one of the people in the story.”

At this point, in the distance, the boy could see his father returning. “Thank you for explaining all that.” He quickly added, “Can you give me any tips?”

“Any tips?” The other grimaced and said, “Not really. There is so much out there on the internet. Writing is a very personal thing. You’ll have to look for what you think suits you.”

He paused for a moment, looking up and seeing the man drawing closer, he said, “The only tip I can give is that you only ever write what you want to write.”

The boy smiled and nodded.

He made his way across town, back to the café where she was waiting.

He was nervously looking around as he approached. If it weren’t for the money he wouldn’t be doing this. It wasn’t his thing. It had all started with a single phone call to his girlfriend. She was a lot more at ease about the deal than he was. Several people milled around chatting outside. One man seemed to be in two minds about going in. He skirted around him and made his way to the table. She could see he was troubled.

“What’s wrong?” She asked, as he sat down.

“I saw a man.”

“What sort of man?”

“I don’t know, just a man.”

She sighed.

“He was loitering as I came in,” he went on.

She looked over at the entrance. “Well, he’s not there now.”

He turned and looked. “No, but he was!”

Her head shook. “Of course there are people around, this is a café. What would you expect?”

He looked hurt.

Her tone softened. ”OK. Look, I think you’re just getting jumpy. Nobody knows what we’re doing. How could they? We’ve been very careful. You know that, right?”

“Suppose so.”

“Well then, just show me what you got.”

“Oh! Yes, of course.” He dug into his pocket and brought out an envelope, tore it open and took out a key. He laid it on the table, then covered it with a napkin. “I suppose this will open the box.”

She asked, “Did he give it to you personally?”

“No. Paid some random kid he found on the street to meet me and hand it over.”

She frowned, “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Me neither,” he said, shrugging, “we don’t really know who he is or why he’s prepared to pay us so handsomely, for just collecting something from a Post Office box.”

She said, “OK. I made a note of the phone instructions. Let’s do it.”

They left the café and made their way to the central Post Office. They both felt the excitement building. Whatever it was, they were both moving into unknown territory.

They found the box with the number she had written down, they opened it. Inside, was a large brown envelope with the words ‘Please open’. It was stuffed with banknotes. There was also a typed note, with no signature.

It read: ‘Please find here the recompense you were promised. I am a billionaire who enjoys giving away money, but also, making a game of it. Thank you for your participation.’

They just stood there, looking at each other…

The strange old man was known for his spells.

He lived alone in a cottage, deep within dense woodland some distance from the village. Some said he was in league with the devil, but that wasn’t generally believed. Despite this, his ugly features and the bad odour that seemed to continually hang around him, did manage to keep the numbers of those willing to visit him to a minimum. Although this was the case, there were always those locals that were in need of some special enchantment, providing a trickle of regular customers. It was widely accepted that his incantations were very affective and his administrations were surprisingly cheap. Another attractive feature of his services came in the form of a tailor-made charm for their personal use, whenever they needed to invoke the power that it gave them.

It came to pass that a wealthy nobleman, learning of the old man’s powers, visited his humble cottage one night, hoping to solve a problem. He kept all his money in leather bags in a room in his castle. He liked nothing more than to spend his evenings counting his fortune, coin by coin. He explained how there had been several attempts to break in and rob him of late and he needed a way of frightening them away.

The magician wasn’t completely comfortable dealing with someone so wealthy, with only greed as a motive. He was certainly not like his regular visitors. With this in mind, he suggested that a shapeshifter spell would do the trick. He recommended that he use his charm piece to transform himself into a ferocious, fire-breathing dragon by holding the talisman while saying the word, ‘Dragon’.

The nobleman was delighted with what he’d been given and offered an extra payment for services rendered, but the sorcerer declined this, saying that he was content to receive his usual payment.

It was as he was leaving that the happy customer suddenly thought of something that he hadn’t asked. He turned at the door and enquired, “How do I return to my normal form?”

“Ah! Well,” the old man replied, with a faint smile, “that’s where the soul-selling comes in.”

The café was very busy, with hardly an empty seat.

He stood, cup in one hand, sausage roll on a plate in the other. He was gazing around, looking for somewhere to sit. There was a spare seat at a table for two close by. The woman there looked friendly enough. He approached with caution.

“Excuse me,” he said, “it’s very busy in here. Would you mind if I sat here?”

“Not at all,” she said, smiling.

He sat, looking around. “I’ve never seen it this busy,” he said.

She gave a soft laugh, “I know, I actually had to stand and wait, when I arrived. So, we’re both in luck.”

“Yes,” he said, “I’ll drink to that.” He picked his coffee up and took a sip. He put it down and held up his sausage roll. He hesitated, then waving it around, he said, “I don’t often eat these, but I’m celebrating.”

“Well, there you go, there’s a coincidence,” she said, with a big grin. She picked up her piece of cake.” So am I!”

He looked surprised. “What are you celebrating?” he asked, then added, “That’s if you don’t mind, of course.”

She thought about it for a moment. Then, dropping her voice, she said, “I have literally just found out that I am pregnant. We’ve been trying for years. It’s wonderful!”

He smiled and nodded. Picking up his cup, he said, “Congratulations!”

She laughed and picking up her cup, they clinked their cups together.

After a moment or two, she said, “And if you don’t mind me asking, “What are you celebrating?”

Putting down his cup, he said, “Well, I must say, there’s a coincidence. I’ve got a bit of a hobby farm, you see. I breed pigs. Unfortunately my boar has not been performing and the sow has had no piglets for nearly two years, despite being able to produce a litter every six months or so. Today, I found out she’ll be having a litter. That’s my wonderful news.

“Congratulations. How did you manage that?”

“I just put a different boar in with her a few months back.”

“Wow! There’s a coincidence!”

“What do you mean?”

“So did I!”

The hoodlums were identical twins.

They were not very old, teenagers really, but they were feared by all those who lived in the neighbourhood. They were notorious for beating people up and although it was never proved, there were one or two corpses that couldn’t be explained. The truth is, they were wicked and frivolous at the same time. One of them carried a large, brass knuckleduster, while the other, a big knife. The brother with the knife was the leader of the two. The only way to tell them apart was that one of them had a mole on the side of his nose. He was the one that carried the knuckleduster. You might say he was the friendlier of the two. Neither of them were popular with the local syndicate boss, who saw them as a troublesome nuisance. He had warned them several times to stay out of his way. They had disobeyed this and robbed a store that was under the boss’s control. He arranged a meeting with them.

Only one of the twins was in the deserted building when he arrived. The one with the mole was there, but he was playing with a knife.

“I see,” said the boss, who was, after all, a serious man, “you are trying to trick me. You want to confuse me by pretending to be your twin. With that mole on your face, I know you are really the one that uses a knuckleduster.”

Moments later the twin brother appeared. He also had a mole next to his nose. He was twirling a knuckleduster around his finger.

They just stood smirking before one of them said, “Pretty good, eh? One of us is wearing a false mole.”

“Forget all that nonsense. I came here to talk to the leader. Now, which one of you is it?”

The boys began giggling. One of them said, “You have to guess. If you get it right, we’ll listen to what you have to say.” They both huddled closer to each other, standing bolt upright, they both looked exactly the same.

The big boss, who had never been any good at being patient, pulled out a gun and shot them both.

Now, that’s serious!

His current girlfriend always did have anger issues.

It was probably a bad move, letting her move in. At first he would see the early niggling signs, often over the smallest things imaginable. Unhappily, this would be followed by a slow yet predictable escalation, until finally resulting in a state of full-blown fury. In just a few short weeks he had come to realise that her disposition was gradually getting worse. When they first met she came across as being slightly unbalanced; although it has to be said that this was shown in an almost amusing way. However, this developed into a mildly manic disposition, followed by the scenario that he had just witnessed where her sudden burst of anger, together with her running out into the night, had her exhibiting definite signs of being as mad as a March hare!

Now sitting, ears still ringing with the extremely loud bang made by the front door as it was slammed shut, he took the opportunity to think ahead. During recent days he had dropped several hints about how it would be better if she moved out. It was obvious that she just wasn’t getting the message. He could well imagine the whole thing worsening, with her going through a period of becoming completely troppo, then showing every sign of being as nutty as a fruitcake, and ending up being nothing short of barking mad!

He was considering all this while absently staring out into the night, when a great steak of fork lightening lit up the sky. This was immediately followed by a crackling noise as the power failed. Some electricity pole had no doubt been hit. A great clap of thunder then heralded a sudden heavy downpour of rain. He could hear it beating hard on the roof. He thought about her out there. He wondered where she was. She didn’t have an umbrella and she hadn’t stopped to put a coat on, of course.

It was when he turned away from the brewing storm with its torrential rain, its constant booms and flashes, that he saw them. Lit by lightening, they were sitting on the coffee table… her purse with her keys and her mobile phone.

He got up, went to the front door and locked it. He did the same at the back. He got ready for bed, pushed in his foam sleeping earplugs and climbed in.

The owner called one of his workers into his office for a chat.

“You’ve been with Toby’s Cakes for several months now. You’ll appreciate that our Plum and Cherry Puddings have cornered the market. However, because of recent competition, things have changed. There’s no doubt that you are one of my best workers, and that’s why I’m going to let you go.”

The baker looked shocked.

“Don’t look so worried,” the boss went on, “I want to put a lucrative offer your way. If you play your part, you’ll be five hundred dollars cash better off and you’ll still have your job.”

What’s this about?

“It’s about Thompson’s Bakery and their latest line of Frosted Tea Cakes. More and more, their new line is eating into our market share.”

“Well, I know about them, but…”

The boss raised a hand. “I know you used to work for Thompson’s. I want you to go back there. Tell them it was a mistake to leave. You only have to work there long enough.”

“Long enough?”

“Yes. Just long enough to discover the recipe for their tea cakes. Then you can return here with your job back and the cash bonus I mentioned.”

The baker looked doubtful. “I don’t know. This doesn’t sound at all ethical.”

“Look,” the other replied, “this sort of thing is more common than you think; business is business, after all.”

The baker scratched his head. “I guess this changes things.”

“What do you mean?”

The baker stood. “As it happens, I was going to hand in my notice this Friday, but I think this needs to become immediate now.”

“Notice? Whatever for?”

The baker grinned. “I was actually sent here to obtain the recipe for your puddings.”

On the way out, he said, “I have to say, they pay a better bonus than you. Business is business, as you say.”

The town’s only electrical repair shop was never short of customers.

The owner’s wife was no longer around and his teenage daughter could only do so much. The owner realised he needed to employ an assistant. He reluctantly hired a lad just out of school. After a couple of months, the boy’s help around the shop made a big difference. On the morning of the expected delivery of spare parts the man grew agitated; the van was late. There were several jobs outstanding, waiting for parts, with customers asking when there items would be ready for collection. On top of that, the air-conditioning unit on the roof was not cooling the place down the way it should. The lad had been up there before and shown how to clean the filters. He was asked to do it again.

“Just be careful,” said the owner, “it’s very windy up there.”

He collected what he needed and made his way to the staircase that took him up through a small door onto the roof. On the way, she stepped back and smiled, letting him pass in the passage with his toolbox. He winked.

He emerged into a blustery wind with occasional strong gusts. He made his way to the unit. He had been cleaning the filters for several minutes when the owner came out through the door.

“How’s it going?” he asked.

“OK,” he replied, “They were pretty clogged up.”

The man smiled, then took on a worried expression. “Still no sign of the delivery.” He lifted his head and listened to the traffic. “Is that him? About time! Take a look, will you.”

The boy moved to the edge and peered down into the street. He hardly felt the gentle prod.

The man just didn’t like the kid dating his daughter.

The press was all over it.

The whole thing went ballistic from the time the body was found in the town’s best hotel. In quick time, the police had their prime suspect and spent hours questioning him. There were those who thought they were a bit hasty, but they pressed ahead. His alibi was weak and the interrogators kept the pressure up because of it. At the time of the crime, he maintained that he’d been at a night club in another town, but nobody interviewed could definitely state that they had seen him on the night. The case drew a lot of attention because the victim was a known crime boss from a major city, who’d come to the town for a meeting with other key players and members of a countrywide crime syndicate.

From the word go, he had fervently protested his innocence. During questioning he had repeated that he was being wrongly accused of something that was completely foreign to his nature; that he was trying to get away with murder. He pointed out that he had no motive to commit the murder. People who knew him would say that this simply wasn’t the sort of person he was.

Despite all this, it went to trial.

As a result of there being only circumstantial evidence, together with the idea that police had possibly cut a few corners in order to get a conviction, he was pronounced not guilty. Owing to the case having created so much publicity, a huge crowd of reporters waited outside the courthouse.

As he left the building a free man, he fought his way through the noisy reporters and jumped into a waiting car. He’d had enough of being the centre of attention.

Although it was hard, he made absolutely sure that nobody saw him smirk.

She enjoyed weaving, but needed to be left alone with her work.

It was only a small company and her part was just a small activity compared with all the heavy engineering that went on next door. She really didn’t do well in there, with all the noise and distraction. She could concentrate on what she was doing far better in a quiet part of the building. Although this area was pretty drab, she had set herself up in a nice quiet corner. She’d never been one to draw attention to herself, anyway. She was happy to be out of the way and on her own. She hadn’t heard any complaints when she moved.

When she had finished her latest piece of work, she scuttled off out of sight, to give all eight legs a rest, and to wait.