Author: Alexander Fawn

There can be no doubt that he was a special case, but nobody knew it.

Whereas most people understood perfectly well how past events have come and gone, along with the concept that future events were likely to take place; he didn’t… In fact, for him, he knew only the present. This state of constant nowness was all that was real to him; all that existed. In most respects this state of affairs hardly impinged upon what was seen to be a perfectly ordinary life. Those around him only experienced the occasional odd moments when there seemed to be something a little off, a touch of something not quite right, an elusive notion that whatever it was, no finger could be placed upon it.

It was he alone that saw his meeting and marrying his schoolgirl sweetheart, having three children, his watching them scatter to the world creating their own lives, his wife succumbing to cancer, his working life coming to an end and his recent diagnosis of something unstoppable that was about to have him yield to the end of it all, all in the same moment. No one would see that this was happening. No one would be aware that this elderly gentleman had lived with this condition. Only he knew that when that inevitable moment came it would be the exact same now that he had ever known.

For him, it was all timeless.

The night wind sweeps over the ridge and descends along the grassy slope.

The trees that live there respond with a rattle of leaves, bouncing gently on twigs. This open space within the endless forest plays to a different tune. Only the great white moon gives light between the trees at the bottom of the hill, where dark trunks support an endless canopy. The low hooting melody gives a presence to the bird sitting otherwise silently in a high branch. Its large twitching head rotates and its large eyes keep watch for the slightest movement across the leafy floor. There is a rustle beneath. Wings expand and the majestic creature drops and swoops in silence and gathers up. Soon after, the quiet returns, and the age-old mysticism of nature resumes, constant and private, unfolding at a steady and well-practised pace.

For us, there may be sadness that the flight has passed unseen.

But for us, there is the joy of knowing that it was there.

Let there be spells,

For those who wish to use them.

Allow them the right to reclaim

Some perceived long lost power,

That drives the mystic in them.

–

Let their words stir life into bygone charms.

Leave them in peace to work the uncanny and unseen.

Whether real or only imagined,

Leave them to fan their enchanted fire.

–

Grant them the joy of laying ghosts to rest,

Summoning the unseen to cast out evil spirits,

Ailments cured and wishes made whole,

Turning away the hauntings,

While quelling dark passions by revoking evil.

–

Spells based on words.

Using poetic witchery and the rites of nature,

Accessing magic, both light and dark,

Both spoken and sung.

–

Looking through the eternal, chanting secret words.

Finding dreams with jangling spells and charms.

Plucking at destiny’s web, righting past wrongs,

Incantations made without sound, dispelling troubled waters.

Giving vent to sorcery, while allowing fantasy to sway.

Pushing veils aside, parting shadows,

Despatching demons.

–

Delving into forgotten arts, sharing celestial regions.

Courting the supernatural, undoing the mysterious.

Releasing ancient powers, exalting the essence of eternity

By returning to another time, but allowing sleeping spirits to slumber.

–

If they mean no harm,

Wandering through celestial planes,

Finding manifestations in shadow,

Searching ageless realms,

Opening the treasured book,

Making signs and symbols,

Then, let there be spells.

His careful planning always did justice to his chosen profession.

He was a thinking man. He was always anxious to do justice to his work. For him, it was never anything but a simple question of justice. After all, these were bad people, weren’t they? The garden was growing dark. There were so many forms of justice; his was just one of them. The back of the house was lit with windows. The man he received his orders from would always insist on justice. He was comfortably leaning against the tree at the end of the garden. He was proud of the way his work was carried out in order to administer justice. The rifle hanging by his side would stay there until the man appeared. Then, he thought, justice would be served.

The man would come out of the house and light a cigar, the paperwork told him that this was his habit. None of this was without justice, when one thought of it logically. The night was growing cold. In this case, as the intended victim was an international arms dealer, it had to be poetic justice, right?

He heard voices coming from the back of the house. He raised his weapon, because these people needed to be brought to justice.

The red laser dot that travelled up the side of his body, put there by the arms-dealer’s bodyguard, was yet one more example of justice…

His father felt that his son needed toughening up.

His mother wasn’t sure. Up to this point, his main interest was focused on borrowing as many books that he could that dealt with Greek Mythology from the local library. This, and anything he could find on the great philosophers of the world. He had also come across a book that he found most interesting that told the story of Alexander the Great. His mother had no real problem with any of this; his father saw most of it as unhelpful reading material. They knew that he’d been bullied at school on several occasions. His father’s idea was to get him involved in some physical sport.

He felt that it had to be some close contact activity that would give him a few knocks, thus enabling him to take some of the rough and tumble that life was bound to dish out as he grew older. After thinking about it for some time, he came up with the idea of Taekwondo.

There was a club not far from their home, and after making an initial call, his father arranged to take him along to the first session to help him settle in. When they met up with the instructor his father introduced him as Lax. He went on to explain that his real name was Alexander, but when his younger brother had tried to pronounce it while at a very young age, it had come out as Lax. Chuckling about it, he told the man that from that time the nickname had just stuck.

Finally, his father left, leaving his son to deal with the whole new world he was entering. His instructor said, “OK, Lax. Let me show you around.”

As they moved off, under his breath, he whispered… “My name is Alexander.”

He knew that everything has an intrinsic value.

As a loss assessor for a major company where he dealt with all manner of loss-related insurance claims, he was used to placing a value on things. That’s why he gave serious thought to the fact that the box of oddments that was taking up room in the shed, would have to be worth something to somebody. There weren’t enough items to make it worthwhile paying to be a seller at the local flea market. In fact, when he thought about it, he didn’t want money for any of it. He just wanted to get rid of it. He balked at the temptation to literally tip it all into the rubbish bin. No, someone would find some of it useful, he felt sure. He took everything out of the cardboard box he had been accumulating it in, one thing at a time. There were at least two dozen items.

It occurred to him that he could put them all out on the front verge with a sign saying they were free and telling people to help themselves. He spent half-an-hour making up a sign, opening up a small picnic table and arranging all the bits and pieces neatly for people to see. His street usually got busy during the afternoon. He went in and waited.

A short time later he heard a car pull up. He watched through his front window, pleased to see that somebody was interested. He stepped back, not wanting to be seen. He’d go out later to see what was taken.

When he did, he found the bric-a-brac had been tipped into a pile, and the table was gone!

In every country there is a town. In every town there is a street. In every street there is a house. In every house there is a room. In every room there is air. In every air there is nitrogen and oxygen. In every nitrogen and oxygen there is life-sustaining. In every life-sustaining there is survival. In every survival there is a story. In every story there is a desire. In every desire there is a goal. In every goal there is a price, and that price is living in a country…

It was just unbelievable, so many things were breaking over such a short period of time.

It started the night before, when they came in. First the knob came off the back door when they tried to open it, then the handle broke in the bathroom when they went to flush the toilet, and this was followed by the globe going on the bedside lamp. Now, in the morning, sitting on the edge of the bed pulling his socks on, he was jarred to one side and nearly ended up on the floor when the whole thing drop sideways with a crack.

He came down mumbling, “Rotten leg came off, didn’t it!

She looked up from unwrapping food, “What leg?”

“One of the legs gave way on the bed; could be worse, I suppose.”

She shrugged.

He went on, “When we came in last night, I had a feeling about it.”

“You did?”

“I was right, wasn’t I? Things breaking. Now, the bed. Could be worse.”

She went looking for plates. Not having much luck, she sighed and gave a grunt of disapproval.

He sat at the counter, saying, “Never mind, it could be worse.”

Now, she was struggling, trying to open one of the drawers. She called out, “Can you fix this? I need cutlery.”

He went over and yanked at it. The front section came off in is hand, with the drawer still jammed in place. He managed to slide his hand in and bring out what she wanted.

She shook her head in annoyance.

“I know,” he said, ‘but, it could be worse.”

“You keep saying that. How could it be worse?”

“Well, think about it. What if we weren’t squatters? What if we lived here?”

For most of his life it had been as though he’d never existed.

There was a medical term for it; Cotard Delusion, he’d been told. It was extremely rare and was usually associated with other psychotic disorders. People like him also often suffered from additional neurological conditions. He had read that beyond the feeling of nonexistence there were those sufferers who experienced a state of being convinced that they were dead. He’d been through all the material he could find on the subject. These studies had given him a comprehensive understanding of the condition. On those rare occasions when he tried to tell anyone that he had doubts about whether he existed, they just ignored him. It was as though they hadn’t heard him. In fact, no one ever seemed to hear him. He realised that it was this sort of disconnection that was the kind of thing that had caused many of his fellow victims come to the conclusion that they were dead.

It is difficult to say how much more time would need to pass before he became aware of the fact that he was…

When he came out of his building the cold night air hit him.

He cursed the fact that this night of all nights he had to go out of his way to buy his wife’s lottery ticket. He’d probably miss his regular bus and then have to stand about freezing, waiting for the next. She normally bought these, but couldn’t this time. He had never been much of a gambler himself, but he knew how much pleasure she got, waiting for her numbers to come up. There was a queue. Eventually, with the ticket safely tucked away in his wallet, he made his way back. At the end of the street he rounded the corner, just in time to see his bus take off. He cursed again and looked at the time. He had a fifteen minute wait.

Opposite his stop was a large, imposing building that never seemed to be open when he left the office, leading him to think that it was some sort of nightclub. He would take the opportunity to check it out. He climbed the three steps at the entrance and began to read the board located on one side of the door. It was evidently some sort of gaming club. For a moment he considered trying the door; to go in and look around; no harm in that, surely. He had time. He decided against it and went back to reading the small print. Seconds later, he was startled to find that someone had come up behind him. He turned to see a short man, rugged up with a bulging duffle coat and scarf wrapped around his face, with his eyes barely showing.

It looked as though this queer looking fellow was about to go in, so he moved closer to the information board to let him pass.

The little man enquired courteously, “Are you going in?”

With a shake of his head, he said, “No, just reading.”

“In that case,” he said, “I have to say that Lady Luck smiles on you this evening.” At this, he pushed the door open and went in. Despite its appearance, the place was obviously open.

At first, he considered the remark unusual, but there again, the notice indicated that it was an establishment for gambling and the remark was probably one often used by the patrons. Nevertheless, it was strange. He crossed the road to the bus stop. Three more minutes and he’d be out of the wind. When it arrived he made his way to the upper deck and sat looking across at the club.

As the bus moved off, lights flashed within the building, accompanied by a number of muffled gunshots…