Author: Alexander Fawn

It was the end of the year and time to write a new list.

This was something she did every year. She really enjoyed thinking carefully about New Year resolutions. Now, with only one day to go, she would have to make a new list. Before this, she would review the old one to see how well she did. She went into the kitchen. She pulled the list off the fridge, and read: 1-Cut down on the amount of time spent watching television, 2-Go to bed earlier and get more quality sleep, 3-Read more and renew library membership, 4-Stop procrastinating, 5-Take up more regular exercise, 6-Eat healthier food, 7-Lose weight, 8-Reduce alcohol consumption, 9-Pay off all debts, and finally, the most important item, 10-Post this list on the refrigerator door so that it’s seen as a reminder, several times every day!

She looked at the piece of blu tack on the fridge’s door, then back at the list.

She sighed, and thought, one down and nine to go…

The two men got out of the limousine and stood looking up at the building.

They were in a quiet part of the city. The night was cold and the warm glow from the foyer looked inviting. The younger of the two went up the front steps first, the nozzle of the handgun gently prodding him in the back. He had no idea what he was doing there. Earlier, he had taken the call in the office, arranging to meet a potential client later in the evening. Nothing strange in that. After all, selling life insurance was a private business. It involved varying degrees of confidentiality, but this? The fancy car and chauffeur sent to pick him up, the elderly man in the back that hardly spoke, the gun pressed against him as they made their way to this, a building he didn’t recognise.

They entered and crossed the lobby to the lifts. The building seemed empty. With the barrel of the gun still pushed firmly against him, they entered the lift and rode to the top. Then, taking a short flight of steps, they came out onto a large, flat roof area. It was dimly lit.

“Where are we going?” the young man asked yet again.

The man finally spoke. “Just a few steps now, to the edge.”

“The edge? Why would I want to go to the edge?”

“There’s a great view of the city from up here.” The gun pushed harder.

At the edge, in front of a low wall, the younger man asked, “Why are you doing this?”

“I’m doing this for Blossom.”

“Blossom?”

“She is… she was, my Russian Blue.”

“Russian what?”

“Blue. She was an angel; my beautiful angel, so loving,” he sneered, “and very expensive!”

“I really have no idea what you are talking about.”

The man’s eyes filled with tears. “My late wife adored her. I adored her. Those delicate whiskers, and those eyes, such gorgeous eyes.” He turned to face the young man. “This, you took from us.”

“Are we talking about a cat?”

“A cat, yes, but no ordinary cat. She was our little angel.” More tears welled up. “Last Tuesday you killed it, with your car. I saw it, I witnessed it! I got your plate, the rest was easy. Now we fix your problem.”

“Problem? What problem?”

“We’re going to fix your depression.”

“I don’t have depression.”

“Yes, you do. A bad case of it, apparently.”

“Nobody’s going to believe that.”

“I think they will. Sometimes depression isn’t easy to see in a person. Besides, the letter found in your apartment will explain everything…”

He enjoyed sketching, especially faces.

It was only a hobby, but he spent a lot of time sitting at his small desk drawing and listening to classical music, when not working in the town’s music store. Although he lived alone in his small apartment, he often had visits from his old school friend. He was also in his early twenties, but lived a far more active social life. He knew that his friend was a loner and a bit of an oddball, if truth was told. Despite this, he enjoyed calling in and spending time with the budding artist. He had always admired his talent, having none of it himself. Seeing his friend’s latest work was something he looked forward to. On this occasion, he found his friend struggling with his latest creation. They both sat, looking down at the pencilled image.

The sketcher was saying, “I’m finding it difficult to get his real likeness. I can never get the face right. This is an early attempt that I keep coming back to.”

His friend asked, “Who is he?”

“Tom. Well, that’s what I call him. I don’t think he likes me calling him that, but it’s become a bit of a joke between us.”

“Ah! This would be the friend you’ve mentioned from time to time. A great musician, you reckon.”

“Yes, and a great deal more, really.”

“So, what so hard about finishing this one?”

“Because it’s always dark when we meet up for a chat.”

“Dark?”

“Yes. Well, it’s only late at night when he visits.”

The other frowned. He was becoming aware of his friend’s weird side coming out. He’d never been told about any late-night visitor. He decided not to push the point and let it drop. He went back to studying the crude outlines of the man’s face. It was then that he noticed the numbers. Pleased that he could change the subject, he asked, “These numbers?”

“What?”

“1751. What’s that about?”

“Oh. That; yes, that’s when the diabetes finally took him.”

The boy was sitting in his bedroom, swatting for his upcoming science essay.

Apart from the distant drone of his mother using the vacuum cleaner, the house was silent. He liked the silence when he was studying. He couldn’t help feeling that a cup of coffee would make it damn near perfect. He glanced at the glass of water his mother had insisted he take with him to his room. It was the latest thing. The latest health kick that everybody was supposed to be doing. The current advice was for people to consume two and a half to three litres a day. She’d even packed dad off to work with a flask of water. She had been so adamant about it, she had gone as far as to say it would help him with his homework. He took a sip and put the glass down on his bedroom desk. He sat staring at it.

It was all about invisibility.

He began to think about atoms. Atoms, and how they combine to form molecules. So many molecules. Hidden things. Molecules in water, each made of a group of three atoms, two hydrogen and one oxygen. Most of the time, they are crazy, tiny particles that constantly hare around, full of energy, endlessly bumping into one another. These little guys aren’t moving that fast, he thought, because they’re in water; not in anything that’s solid. Being in a liquid, they just have sufficient energy to flow passed one another. They flow, and as a result, water flows. That had to make sense.

These guys are just gliding around, but if you applied heat… that’s another matter, of course. They would all speed up. He thought about how the kinetic molecular theory says these tiny thingamajigs are always on the move.

It came to him that he now had the topic for his essay.

His mother was right!

The woman at number fourteen was cooking dinner when the phone rang. She looked at the clock, wondering who could be calling at such a time. She felt she had to answer it as her cousin was recently killed in a road accident and she knew that relatives were still grieving. She wiped her hands on her apron and picked up the phone. She said, “Hello?”

She heard, “Hello”, then there was a pause on the line.

“Hello,” she repeated. “Who is this?”

“Ah! Yes. Hello, I do hope this isn’t an inconvenient time for you.”

The woman didn’t reply.

“Yes, well, I’m the lady from number-twenty-seven. You may have seen our Winnebago on the front lawn. Anyway, our son recently lost his pet guinea pig. You’ve probably seen the posters he put up all over town. As you can imagine, he was terribly fond of little Squeaky, his pet name for it, and he has recently been told about something I feel I need to talk to you about. Somebody said they thought you and your husband came here from Paucartambo, I hope I got the spelling right. Looking it up in Google maps I see that it’s a town in Southern Peru. I, we, my son, husband and I, we also discovered that Peruvians actually eat guinea pigs and consider them a delicacy. In fact, our neighbour from across the road in twenty-six, b says that Peruvians consume something like sixty-five million guinea pigs a year…

The woman at number fourteen put the phone down gently.

What she whispered to herself as she returned to the kitchen would have embarrassed a Croatian construction worker.

It was the recent incident during their geography class that had him working on a code.

Note-passing was common practice among the pupils. It all came about when their teacher had stood on a chair to take down a large atlas, showing just how broad her hips actually where. That’s when his friend on the desk behind tapped him on the shoulder and passed the note. The truth is, if he hadn’t sniggered, and had the note not got passed around, nothing would have come of it. As it was, she became aware of all the commotion and giggling, she seized the note and read it for herself.

What followed was very unpleasant, with her trying to find out who actually wrote it. There were threats of a visit to the principal’s office and possible expulsion. Naturally, she never got to the bottom of it, no pun intended, but it did leave everybody rattled. That’s when he started to work on his code. It had to be something they could all use to keep their messages private. He felt himself to be more than competent in the business of creating something robust; something unbreakable.

It was a couple of nights later, at his home, that he and his friend from the desk behind sat looking at what he had come up with so far.

“It has to be robust,” he was saying, as he spread several sheets of paper out across his bedroom floor. “I started by finding a word that would be the key word to base the code on.”

“Key word?” asked his friend.

“Yes. That’s the word, the secret word if you like, that you need to know in order to read the message.”

“OK. Did you find one?”

“I did.”

“Wow! Go on.”

“I didn’t want it to contain too many letters, which would only make it unnecessarily complicated, no more than ten. After all, even ten is almost half of the twenty-six letters of the alphabet. Also, I had to find a word of that length where none of the letters were repeated.”

“And you found one, you say?”

“Yes. Guilderton.”

“What’s that?”

“Not what… where. It’s a place name. Found it in the class notes. It’s a small town on the west coast of Australia.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Gee! You really have put a lot of work in on this. It’s going to be great!”

“I hope so. The next step was to assign numbers to each letter. Each of these letters is represented by a number from one to twenty-six. Here’s the chart I made.”

At this point he produced a printout and they both studied it.

“Wow! Looks good.”

“Thanks. Anyway, at first, I thought I would convert the ten numbers 4, 5, 7, 9, 12, 14, 15, 18, 20 and 21. These being the letters used to make the key word, then put the letters down in the order originally shown in the alphabet. This gave me the word ‘degilnortu’. I wasn’t happy with that.”

His friend shrugged and said, “No.”

“No. What I did was add all ten numbers up. This gave me 125. Then, I divided this number by the number of letters; ten. Unfortunately, the result was 12.5.”

At this point his friend frowned. “I can’t see how that helps.”

“It doesn’t.”

“OK. What do we do then?”

“Ah!” he said, thinking hard. “I think we should be more careful about writing notes.”

He zoomed off, leaving her alone on the park bench.

She knew this was final. She sat crying for a while. A good cry never did anybody any harm, her mother used to say. They’d been together since their school days, but it had always been the case that they wanted different things from life. In spite of her grief, they both agreed that the breakup was inevitable. She wanted to marry, have children and settle down. All perfectly natural things to crave for, she thought. Her parents had said from the start that they’d help with the money to get them started. She had even talked him into looking at show homes and houses from time to time, but it was obvious that his heart just wasn’t in it.

All he really cared about was his electric scooter.

He switched the TV on and settled into his armchair.

He’d been looking forward to catching up with the show all week. Thumbing through the magazine, he made sure that he had the time and the channel right. He sat back and waited. The minutes ticked away slowly before the programme’s title came up. Not long now, he thought, with a sense of growing anticipation.

Finally, the show started and he began watching the clock. He waited for the ad to come on, the one where his ex-wife smiled into the camera, wearing the latest and greatest eyeshadow. His patience was rewarded when the advertisement started. He stood, picking up the loaded gun. He waited for the final big close up. He took careful aim and shot her between the eyes.

The TV exploded!

Listen to them in the night,

Telling you how you should feel.

A one way heart-to-heart talk,

With nothing really real.

–

An echo from some capriccio,

Playing in your head.

Then, fleeting voices barely heard,

A search for meaning instead.

–

A jumble of notions from the day.

Images and sounds abound.

Some feckless, lacking theme,

Some valid and profound.

Maybe a movie or a parade,

That has these images floating by.

Loved ones appearing, then fading.

Returning by-and-by.

–

Imagining by sound and sight,

Whether causing joy or fright;

A stranger’s frown,

A sorrow to drown,

A ride through town,

A scholar of renown,

A crying clown,

A toppled crown,

A bloodstained gown,

A light pole down…

Just whispers in the night.

The joy of a quiet time.

In a gallery, moving alone,

Staring silently at where shadows fall.

While those around also follow their taste,

Taking in the work of others; choosing where to dwell.

Admiring those with palette and brush;

Those strangers that have mixed beads of oil into colours, light and dark.

These great masters creating beauty and form.

Renaissance art, still aging.

–

This visitor, concentrating on rural scenes, often lacking figures.

Looking beyond, at what nature offers.

A blur of ancient mist, odd patches of half-hidden sky, an unexpected wisp of smoke.

And yet, with the occasional ornateness of a frame catching the eye.

Such distractions being fleeting reminders of times passed,

With this great gathering of revered masterpieces.

–

A merger of the material and the aesthetic.

All somehow verging on the spiritual.

Ah! The pure joy of it.

Staring silently at where shadows fall.