Author: Alexander Fawn

It was a bad accident, with the driver dying and his injured passenger ending up in hospital.

The following day, a nurse woke him to say he would be having a visit from the police. Shortly after, a policeman arrived at his bedside. He explained that he needed to gather more about the accident; details that he couldn’t get from the passenger the night before. He told him that he would eventually need to make a written statement. The patient explained that he had known the driver for many years. He said he knew how belligerent his friend could be on occasion. He said the trouble had started in the night club. Apparently he had met this woman who was telling his friend that she was a psychic and how she wanted to warn him about his future. The man in the bed explained that he had come into the conversation late and at that point his mate was giving the woman a hard time and ridiculing her.

This woman was saying that he would die as a result of coming face to face with himself. Of course, he just laughed at her, saying that her prediction made no sense. He asked her to explain, but she wouldn’t elaborate. She said that this could happen soon, depending on how well he could control his physical reactions. It was at this point he had threatened to have the manager throw her out. He was truly drunk at this stage. Anyway, the woman just laughed at him, telling him what a fool he was.

“That’s when I intervened,” the man in the bed explained. “I managed to get him out of there and into the carpark. We found the car and he was swaying around as he stood taking in fresh air for a while. He said it was clearing his head and he’d be OK to drive. I wasn’t happy about that, but he started to get angry with me, so I shut up.”

The policeman looked up from his notes. “Why do you suppose that he insisted on driving when he was obviously so drunk?”

The patient was getting tired, but made an effort to think about the question. “OK,” he said, “to be honest, knowing him, I think he just wanted to prove the woman wrong.”

The policeman sat reading through his notes for several long moments before saying, “Let me just clarify a couple of things, sir.”

The man in the bed settled back and made himself more comfortable, he thought the questioning was about to end and was looking forward to going back to sleep.

“Sure,” he whispered.

“You say that this woman he met in the bar said, let me see, yes here we are, she said that her prediction about his death could happen soon, depending on how well he could control his physical reactions, is that right?

“Yes. Right.”

“And you also said she told him that he would die as a result of coming face to face with himself. Is that right?”

Very sleepy now, the other said, “That’s correct.”

The policeman sat shaking his head for a while before saying, “I’ve been told that because he wasn’t wearing a seat belt when you hit the tree, he was thrown up out of his seat and the impact to his face when it hit the rear vision mirror caused sufficient fracturing of the skull that it resulted in his instant death.”

The man in the bed was almost asleep now. He mumbled, “She was right then,” and began to snore.

He’d been brought in for questioning.

Of course, he was known to the police. He couldn’t deny that as burglars go, he was prolific. However, much to the frustration of the law keepers, he’d always got away with it. It was simple really. Whenever he was on a job he made absolutely sure that he left no evidence. Each time, with a great deal of care, he would check and double check that no trace of him being there would be found. All he had to do was come up with a completely plausible alibi for the time of the robbery. He sat looking at the familiar face of the investigating officer. Although he felt that something wasn’t quite normal about his expression.

“I’m afraid your days of thieving are over,” the detective began.

“You don’t say

“Ah! I do say. We have you nailed this time.” He pushed a black and white photo across the table. “The mayor’s home has a lot of security, as I’m sure you are aware. But you obviously didn’t know that a cleverly concealed camera, only recently added, took this picture just as you were climbing back out of the window. Please note the time stamp. Any alibi you come up with just won’t wash this time.”

He looked down at the photo. It was only a black and white print out, but it was clearly him, looking up in the direction of the hidden camera. He looked up, saying, “But I wasn’t there!”

The policeman chuckled. “You’re going down for this one.” He sat back and leered. “It’s really satisfying to know that the few articles taken would hardly pay for a good meal.”

“But I wasn’t there,” he whispered. He picked it up and studied the time. He couldn’t believe it, knowing full well that at the time shown he was in another town successfully robbing a jewellry store of several highly valued items.

He sat weighing it up.

As time passed, the snow outside eased off.

The man could see outside more clearly now. Recent events had shaken him badly. He felt he just needed time. As it was, he had no idea where he was or how he got there. People were walking past. Most of them carried bags. Some had parcels. They all looked happy. He detected an air of excitement out there. Something special was happening, he was sure of that. There was a muted stream of music coming from somewhere.

He was aware of the fact that his powers of introspection were limited, but he had enough to contemplate his present situation. He realised that he was standing still, in some way unable to move. This may well be the result of the earlier disturbance. It had certainly shaken him up. He wondered whether he should try to move around a bit, but it could be too soon for that. Too soon after the… the what? He couldn’t say.

Then, it began to happen again.

The girl in the shop was excited about Christmas. Her mother called for her to hurry up. She looked in and smiled at the tiny snowman, shook the snow globe again and put it back on the shelf.

The seasoned detective had seen so many cases like the one he was investigating.

He went through all of the rooms slowly. He found bank statements, photo albums, medical certificates, letters and a diary. When he got back to the station he went straight to his desk to finish up the paperwork.

A fellow officer asked, “How’d it go?”

The detective sighed. “A young girl in her early twenties, found dead in her flat, along with three sleeping pill bottles, all empty, of course.”

 “Suicide then?”

“Yes, but there’s more to it than that if you read between the lines.”

“Such as?”

“Well, I went through her flat and found signs of constant poverty, foolhardy aspirations, uncaring parents, body image frustration, lack of friends, loss of self-worth, car licence cancelation, economic discombobulation, and an ongoing pest infestation.”

The other sighed back, and said, “Gotcha.”

Perfection may be found or created,

It comes from within and without.

The sequence of words in a hymn.

A tipping point removing a doubt.

–

A smile that reflects a joy.

A sky that’s the right shade of blue.

A cap that spins free from its neck.

An angle that is looked on as true.

A mosaic of greens in a tree.

A note that flows from a string.

A flavour that is ideal.

The calm that virtue can bring.

–

A painting viewed without fault.

The sky with a setting sun.

A lid snapping softly shut.

A vow that can’t be undone.

–

To see in another what is ideal,

Perfection without a plan.

Not there for those that can’t,

But real for those who can.

She was visiting her friend a few days after the funeral.

It was more like a summons than an invitation. They had been close friends since there school days. Although they were now both in their mid- twenties and both single, while the visitor had no siblings, her friend had recently lost her brother in a fatal car accident. She and her brother had been extremely close and in the main, quite comfortable with sharing confidences. There had only ever been one exception to this. It concerned his most recent home project. Although he had worked in a scientific institution for a number of years, he was continually working on various projects of his own, in the back room of their house. This much, her visitor already knew.

When her friend first arrived, they sat in the lounge with cups of coffee, generally catching up. The bereaved sister knew three things about her friend. The first was that she had regularly been top of their class in mathematics, she had been a covert hacker for a number of years and she often described herself as an accomplished code cracker.

The conversation eventually turned to the project. “I wanted to tell you more about what he was doing,” she began. “Well, you remember what my brother was like, when it came to building things; you know, all sorts of contraptions.”

“Of course.”

“It’s about his latest project. There’s this thing in the back room, some sort of cabinet. It looks like one of those cubicles that you go into and have your photograph taken. I know he was unusually protective of the thing, when he was building it. All in all, he must have spent the best part of three years working on it.”

She paused, thinking about it with a loving grin.

“Anyway, the only time he talked about it, in any detail, was the day before the accident. He said it was some kind of time machine. He said he had successfully used it several times. He swore blind that it worked, and I have no reason to think he was lying.”

She shook her head.

“He told me he wanted to reveal it to the world and was thinking about how he would go about it. He said if it was managed properly, as partners, we would become extremely wealthy and it would remain that way for the rest of our lives.”

She paused. “All of this, the day before he died; the day before the car crash.” At this point, the tears came. She sat sobbing, using several tissues, while her friend sat patiently giving her time and taking in all that she had been told.

When she had recovered, her friend said, “You’re telling me you have a time machine in the back room, that works!”

Still snivelling, the other nodded. “That’s why I contacted you… of course. Apparently, he had worked out a very strong password for it.”

“A password. OK.”

At this, she flapped her hands. “That’s the thing, you see. That’s the problem. The only thing besides the cubicle is a side table that he must have used as a work bench. There’s a small, metal box with a keypad. When you switch it on, a long display panel lights up with a row of seventeen squares. Besides this, there are bits of wire, some electrical equipment and a few tools, and there’s a book.”

Her friend’s eyes lit up.

She went on. “Before you get too excited, I can tell you that I’ve read it cover-to-cover several times and there’s no sign of a password or code. I mean, if you can figure it out, I would be happy for you to replace him… as a partner, of course.”

Her visitor stood up, and with a hint of suppressed excitement in her voice, said, “Okey dokey, let’s take a look.”

In the back room, after spending a few minutes looking at everything and powering up the unit to confirm the panel’s configuration of squares, her visitor picked up the book and began reading.

The other said, “There is a page in there with the heading ‘Password’, but it didn’t help.”

After more reading, the friend said, “I see where he was going. He says here the code should contain upper-case and lower-case letters, numbers and symbols and at least three special characters, in all, at least twelve characters. He obviously used seventeen.”

The other groaned, saying, “You see what I mean. It seems hopeless.”

“Yes, but underneath his notes, here at the bottom,” she held up the page, “he’s pencilled the number seventeen, in brackets.”

The other shrugged.

“Don’t you see? That’s the number of fields the display panel is showing.”

It was then that she realised how much her friend was deluding herself. Giving her a brief smile, she said, “OK. If you think it will help.”

“Well, it’s a start. Can I take the book with me, if I promise to keep it safe?”

“Sure.”

A few minutes later, at the front door, her friend said in a low voice, “I’ll give it my best shot,” then waved goodbye as she walked away.

Waving back, she watched her go.

Good luck with that, she thought.

It had happened within minutes of his walking into the kitchen.

It was first thing in the morning and he was barely awake when he heard the rustling sounds coming from the pantry. Opening the door, he came face to face with a mouse. It sat perched on the top of a jar of sandwich spread nibbling on what looked like a piece of biscuit. It didn’t move, it just sat there. There was no scurrying away, the sort of behaviour that a person in that situation would reasonably expect. No, nothing like that. Its little arms dropped from its mouth and its little head tipped slowly to one side, as if it was asking if it could do something for the human intruder that had just disturbed it while enjoying its breakfast. He was simply mesmerized for several long moments. They just stared at each other for a while… before the mouse spoke.

“Can I do something for you?” it enquired, before going back to its morsel.

After a few beats, and positively amazed at how he was taking the situation so calmly, he managed to blurt out, “Excuse me, did you speak?”

“Yes, of course I did,” came the reply.

Anyway, that’s how it all started.

After making a cup of tea and a couple of slices of toast, they settled down for a chat. He left the door open and pulled up a chair to face the pantry. The mouse explained that only a very small percentage of rodents could actually talk, and hardly any of them actually did. It informed him that it was a field mouse. It went on to explain that it was on its own now. It relayed, in painful detail, how its beloved soulmate had met its end by being eaten by a dog. It was a horrible thing that had radically changed its life. It said how much it missed its beloved Daisy.

It had been quite early on in the conversation that he felt a sense of understanding and empathy for the creature and explained that he too had suffered a loss. He relayed the fact that he could understand its misery as he had lost his wife to a terminal illness a few years back and this had changed his life. It was back then that he left the city and had bought this tiny cottage in the country where he lived alone.

Having discovered this common thread, the tiny rodent became even more verbose. In fact, it just wouldn’t stop talking, mainly about how life wasn’t the same without Daisy, and how much it missed the light of its life.

“Yes,” it was saying, “it was a Westie that got her, my beloved.”

The man only nodded.

“They’re bred to kill rodents, you know?”

“No. I didn’t know that,” he said, trying to sound interested.

“Yes, their proper breed name is the West Highland White Terrier.”

“Oh!” he said.

This went on for some time.

Finally, looking up at the clock he realised that this originally fascinating tête-à-tête had been going for more than an hour and he was definitely tiring of it. Especially the nauseating repetition about how much it missed its Daisy. He was thoroughly sick of hearing about Daisy.

The annoying creature was still rabbiting on about it when he finally excused himself and left the room. He needed a plan. It quickly took shape. Paying absolutely no mind to how much this might hurt its feelings, he returned to the kitchen and found an almost empty box of biscuits. He opened the end and laid it down on the kitchen table. “You can finish these off, if you like,” he said and stood back, adding, “I hope you like digestive biscuits.”

“Love ‘em”, it said, as it hopped down onto the table and entered the box.

At this point, he closed the box, secured it with a rubber band, went out to the car where he put it in the boot, drove for twenty minutes, pulled off the road and parked next to an extensive area of woodlands, retrieved the box, walked into the woods for a further five minutes, found a pleasant spot, removed the elastic band, then trotted back to his car feeling fully confident that he could return home to a bit of well-deserved peace and quiet.

Back in the sanctuary of his cottage, he closed the pantry door, sighed, and switched the kettle on.

The supermarket was very busy with people piling up at the checkouts.

At the back of one of the long lines of shoppers a woman was on her phone. Much to the irritation of many of those around her she was talking very loudly. She was rabbiting on about what she was doing to help save the planet. As she went on it was obvious that people were becoming more and more uncomfortable.

She was saying, “Oh! Yes, my dear, we are very careful about our recycling habits. Quite naturally we voted Green. My husband cycles to work you know and we are both vegan. We always make sure that our purchases have environmental benefits and it goes without saying that we avoid plastic at all costs. We have done our best to green our home as much as possible, you know, and I can assure you we are constantly water wise. We always boycott any of those nasty products that endanger wildlife. Of course, we are very conscious about our carbon footprint, it was for that reason that we chose to have a small family.

She was forced to stop when she had to pay for her purchases. A great sigh of relief and several audible murmurs ran through the crowd. Not that she noticed. She grabbed her bags and left the checkout area, making for the far exit.

When she was well and truly gone, the store’s music stopped, the speakers crackled and a voice came over saying: “On behalf of the supermarket we would like to thank the woman now leaving the store for the admirable contributions she has made with regards to the future of the planet. Thank you.”

It was a pleasantly warm day for sitting quietly in his back garden.

The man had not been there long when he first heard it. He became aware of a mumbling sound in his head. It was like a ringing in his ears, but different. It came in short bursts, a fuzzy sound, a bit like hearing a distant voice coming from a neighbour’s radio, barely audible. As he sat there it became clearer. Then, with a sudden surge of clarity, he heard “Hello!” It was then that he became aware of a large stick insect, sitting on the lip of a nearby flowerpot. As he stared at it, it said, “Yes, it’s me. I’m trying to tell you something. All you have to do is listen.”

Badly shaken, he said, “But you are a stick insect…”

“Yes. Yes. I know. I’ve heard it all before. Don’t get hung up in all that stuff! You humans are far too fond of going into denial when we insects feel we really have something to say.”

The man sat dumbfounded… and told off.

The insect said, “Have I got your attention?”

The man nodded.

The insect said, “Good! OK then. You see that scarlet swamp hibiscus, in the corner there?”

He looked at it. He remembered his late wife had planted it.

“Well, yes,” he said.

“It needs watering.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. These are what you call water-loving plants. If the soil gets too dry they won’t bloom. In fact, they’ll most likely die.”

Looking back at the plant, he heard a great fluttering as the insect took off. He heard a murmured, “Just a suggestion.”

He went inside and Googled it.

She wiped tears away to get a better look at the broken chain.

She doesn’t know how it happened. Did it snag on something? It had simply rested there on the shelf where it had always been. Apart from being a family heirloom, it was priceless. The chain was made of gold. Two of the links had broken open. It was part of an ancient weighty artefact, likewise made of solid gold. It was a piece of art; a mystic winged figure with a head and tail. Part of the chain seemed to be welded to the back of the pendant with no kind of clasp. It was obviously designed to slip straight over the head. She felt wretched about it, after all it was in her care.

Then, the solution came to her. For the very first time she would turn to Norse theology. Not so much theology as mythology. She felt sure that her great grandmother’s book would be the answer. She went to the large, dusty book box in the attic. She found it. The great tome was titled ‘The Elfin Guide’. Back in the lounge she began reading. She found what she was looking for.

That night she would put milk and barley out on the front porch just before she went to bed. Alongside, she would place the wishing dish, another relic handed down. This would contain the broken amulet. She knew that if she did the entire thing perfectly, exactly as described in the book, the elves would come and make any repairs needed before sunrise. To make doubly sure, she read through the relevant passage again.

When the time came, everything was put out.

In the morning she hurried down to check on whether the elves had been; they had. The milk was gone; the barley was gone; and the pendant and the dish were gone!

She had obviously skipped over the first line in the guide. It read, ‘Not all elves are good.’