Author: Alexander Fawn

She had long since made up her mind that she didn’t want children.
She would never experience childbirth. She would never know what it’s like to cradle a baby in her arms. She would never see the first tooth, hear the first words, watch the first steps or witness the first day at infant day-school. She would never receive school reports or be advised of exam results. She would not have to receive school detention notices or letters that threatened expulsion. She would never have to deal with police complaints about delinquency or court cases regarding wilful property damage, disorderly conduct, assault, vandalism, housebreaking, or possession of drugs. She would never know any of this. This was self-imposed. Her resolve was firm. This was something she could rely on.

Sitting in the corner of her prison cell, she reflected on all this.
This all made perfect sense because nobody ever wanted her.

He’d always liked the cat at number ten.
He didn’t know its name or its owner. It would be perched on the brick column at the end of the wall when he passed on his way to the bus stop. It was always there; waiting. As soon as it caught sight of him, it would sit upright, waiting for a stroke. Every morning he would stop and spend a few precious seconds fondling its head and ears, feeling the purr vibrating through his hand. Just a couple more strokes and a fond whisper and he’d move on, feeling good about the coming day. He often thought of it as some strange kind of symbiosis that nobody knew about, just him and the cat.
It was the week that he came down with the flu that it happened. He was sick on the weekend and rang in to say he should be fit to return to work after a couple of days. On Tuesday he was feeling a lot better and confident he could go in the following day. He got up late and was preparing cereal in the kitchen when he heard the scratching coming from the back door. It was the cat, sitting on the mat. It looked as though it was waiting for something. He could hear the loud purring and crouched down, stroking and generally making a fuss of it, saying how nice it was to get a visit. He stood, wondering whether it was wise to let it in, when it turned and wandered away.
The following day, as he was approaching the pillar, he was disappointed to find it empty. He stopped to look over the wall and came face to face with an elderly woman digging behind the wall. He was embarrassed about his intrusion and said awkwardly, “Sorry, I was looking for my little friend. He’s not sitting, waiting for me to give him a stroke.” He smiled, but saw tears well up in her face. She was trying to smile back, when she said, “Laurance, you mean. I was just planting a few flowers next to his grave.” She took out a tissue and wiped her eyes. “I’m so sorry!” he said. She shook her head indignantly. “It’s that road,” she said, “Run over, he was, on Saturday. Didn’t stop; neighbour found him.”
Alas, this is all fiction, and this writer doesn’t expect any one to believe a word of it!

Everybody she ever knew had little regard for her.
She was disliked by everybody throughout her school years. Everybody that came into contact with her had genuinely grave doubts about her value as a member of society. As a rule, everybody ignored her. Everybody that worked with her avoided getting to know her. Everybody that had their lives touched by her preferred to forget her. Later, when she started her shadowy life of crime, everybody lost touch with her. However, everybody saw her name appear in the press when she was found guilty of assault and battery. Everybody thought that the non-custodial sentence wasn’t enough. Then, when she was suspected of murder and taken into custardy, everybody watched the news item on television. After being charged, everybody saw her as she was escorted into the courthouse. When the fact that she had been found guilty and given a long sentence was announced on the television’s news program, it was seen by everybody. Just about everybody knows her name. For everybody, she has become a celebrity for all the wrong reasons.

Now, everybody remembers her.

She carried the box into the sitting room and placed it at her husband’s feet.

She stood looking down at Figaro’s small, lifeless body curled up in the cardboard box. The black haired Pomeranian had been such a wonderful pet. She looked at her husband. “You did this,” she snarled. She had found the poison on the dark web. It was supposed to be completely undetectable. No traces of it would ever be found in a body. What if the stuff didn’t work, or what if it had only half worked. It had to be tested.
Two bodies; that’s not good! She would bury Figaro in the garden; that’s the least she could do for him. Such a wonderful little companion. She had to know didn’t she? That’s it, she’d bury him and say he was lost. Maybe ask around a bit to add authenticity to her story.
As for him… heart attacks were pretty common, weren’t they? Could you have a heart attack while eating potted noodles? Yes, of course, it can happen any time. She then thought she could say how he was really worried about Figaro; he got very anxious, couldn’t stop talking about it.
OK. Next step. Bury her beloved pet, then make a frantic call for an ambulance. She carried the box out and found a spot, one that she could see through the kitchen window. Thankfully, she thought, by the time she had finished, there would be absolutely nothing around to remind her of him, the selfish brute that had made her life a misery.
The hole had been dug and she was tearfully looking down at the cute little friend she was losing, when two things happened at once.
His head moved, and someone was calling from the house!

It was a lack of circumspection that had him expelled from the spiritual studies group.
In hindsight, the pupil could easily see that the rather unpleasant outcome had been on the cards from day one. To say that his tutor in esoteric studies was pompous would be a gross understatement. His attitude towards the small group of pupils, and this particular boy especially, was that such philosophical doctrines were only understood by a select few and the tutor was one of them. He was fond of saying that his high level of knowledge pertaining to such matters, and his ability to grasp them was due to him being able to make regular visits to some figure he referred to as the Great Master. It seems that none of the other boys had wondered who that person actually was, or how the tutor was able to catch up with him so often, because he was continually quoting him.
This had been the case until the boy in question approached the tutor in order to seek clarification. It was during the man’s explanation of where so much knowledge and wisdom came from that the boy had fast growing doubts about whether the man had lost a great number of his marbles.
He was told that every night he went to bed, he would visit the master and gain more pearls of wisdom. He only had to think the thought, ‘I am going to visit the master’, over and over a few times just before he fell asleep. He told all this to the boy with a great deal of pride and satisfaction. The boy was truly fascinated with the idea. So, it came to pass that in bed that night the young student, wanting to experience this phenomenon for himself, went through this strange ritual just prior to losing consciousness.

In the morning he woke with vivid scenes of actually meeting the Great Master and having a long discussion with him about how man had struggled with the search for knowledge. How for so long philosophers had been tussling with the fundamental questions of what is right and what is wrong, the true nature of reality and the vexing question of life’s actual meaning and what we are all doing here. It was a wonderful experience and a most instructive conversation. He couldn’t wait to tell his tutor!
The next morning, with great enthusiasm, the boy told his tutor all about it. However, his tutor seemed a little apprehensive when he asked whether the master had mention him. The boy said that he had naturally told the master about his studies and his tutor.
Needless to say, this was when the element of caution should have been used. As it was, the boy’s future studies were radically disrupted when he told his tutor that the master had never heard of him.

They were clearing the site when they found it.
It was around the size of a regular soup can. One end of the cylinder was flat and it was rounded at the other. There was a definite recess just below the dome, as though the end would unscrew, but it wouldn’t budge. One of the workmen suggested that it might be a piece of military ordnance. A less informed worker asked what that was. On being told that it may be some kind of unexploded bomb they stopped trying to open it. The entire site was cleared very quickly and the police called to report the find. Not long after this, the bomb squad arrived. They soon determined that it was not an explosives device, but took it away to be looked at more carefully.

The first thing they tried to do was open it. All attempts failed at first and it was only when they clamped the body and used a heavy duty adjustable wrench that the cap unscrewed. The container turned out to be hollow, save for a small, folded piece of what looked like paper. It was made of a thick material that was difficult to open. On it were printed several weird characters. After a number of people had looked at the inscription without recognising their origin, the whole thing was packed up and shipped to a government test laboratory for analysis.
They tried to keep it quiet, but somehow the press got hold of it. Nothing like a bit of mystery to sell newspapers. Theories were being offered left right and centre; everything from secret society doings from the middle-ages to a message planted by aliens.
Meanwhile, back in the government building, after several days of head-scratching, an expert panel, consisting of a group of the world’s most eminent hieroglyphologists gathered to decipher the strange symbols. The outcome of this was that these symbols were not something that had ever been seen before.
It was at this point, when it was decided that the whole thing was unfathomable and would have to remain a complete mystery, that the specialist that headed up the investigation was heard to mumble, “Wait a minute, I have an idea…”

You could say that he was the town’s resident graffiti artist.
He daubed his colourful art works all over the place. Some of his pieces were very nicely done and many thought his presentations should be left where they were. To this degree the community showed a certain amount of tolerance every time a new graphic display appeared. Unfortunately, the day came when this budding illustrator went just that tiny bit too far. There are boundaries that should never be crossed. He overstepped the mark the day he embellished the wizard’s wall. It was a large, yellow smiley face. Two big eyes and a wide happy mouth. It was not clear what made him do it. This may never be known. The wizard, being a wizard, only had to pass his hand slowly across the painted sign to instantly learn the identity of the perpetrator. He took particular exception to the image in question on account of the fact that he happened to be an exceptionally serious wizard.

The upshot of it all being that the lad was made to clean the door thoroughly, and he did. No sign of his handiwork remained. On this point, it should be said that all this happened over a year ago and he hasn’t been seen since.
You really shouldn’t mess with wizards.

He sat staring at the digital clock on his desk.
It was late. He’d been there for an hour, probably longer. He knew it was rather childish, but he sat waiting for it to change; to move inexorably to the witching hour. He held his breath as it reached 11:59. As a kid he’d learnt that at midnight certain things began; all the demons, hobgoblins, ghosts and all kinds of horrible monsters were suddenly active, more powerful… more of a threat to mortals. His grandad had told him about such things. Much to his mother’s annoyance, he would tell tales of strange things occurring at this time. One of his favourites was the story about grandma’s photo.
The way he told it, he had the photo on his bedside table from the time she’d passed away. On this particular night, just before midnight, of course, he was sitting on the edge of his bed when he heard a rattling noise. It was the picture’s frame vibrating. When he looked at her face, she nodded her head slightly and winked! He remembered how the old man would pause after the nodding part, so they could say that she winked together! It was all in good fun really, but mum found it spooky. He sat smiling at the thought of his grandad making the whole thing something you could laugh at. That had probably not been such a bad thing…
Then, after several minutes of reverie, with a silent flicker, the screen changed to 12:00.

She leaned over the metal rail and looked down.
She felt herself shiver as the evening’s chilly wind seemed to blow right through her. She knew why she came here, she had planned it for weeks. This would be her decision, her choice. It was a very long drop from the bridge to the deep water below.

In the growing darkness her actions would go unseen. Tears filled her eyes as she thought about what she was about to do. She hadn’t told anyone about it. Nobody else had any idea about what she had in mind. Especially not him. She had tried so hard, but he made her life a misery. She knew she couldn’t go on. This was the only way. What she was about to do couldn’t be undone.
Finally, she braced herself, took a deep breath and let the engagement ring fall from her hand.

She was a young stenographer working at the courthouse. Her hair was black and she kept it long. She had pale green eyes and a slightly pointed chin. She would occasionally help out at the homeless shelter, as a volunteer. She and friends would often spend an evening at the Pink Parrot club.
This short story is not about her.
He was a junior draftsman in a major home construction company. He had fair hair, blue eyes and a square jaw. Although not tall, he worked out regularly at a gymnasium. He enjoyed building model aircraft from kits. Now and then he would join his friends and call in at the Pink Parrot club.
This short story is not about him.
The night following an evening at the club she found herself with free time between court cases. She tried to remember exactly what the good looking guy that built model planes had said about her hair. Had it been a compliment? Yes, she was now quite sure that it was!

This being the case, this short story is about them…