Author: Alexander Fawn

He was known for coming up with all kinds of conspiracy theories.
So, it wasn’t unusual for his friend to get a phone call one evening telling him how he had unearthed yet another plot. They had known each other since school and the conspiracy theorist had been full of ideas about what was really going on in the world even back then. The only difference between this call and all the other claims was that he said he had proof, actual, real, hard physical evidence that something really dodgy was going on. He was extremely excited and wanted to come round straight away with the evidence. Although he didn’t always agree with his friends ideas, he was always happy to listen to them. Although this particular request to visit out of the blue was unexpected, he agreed.
His eyes were blazing with excitement when he arrived. Without wasting time, he held up a small thumb drive and asked, “Can I use the computer?”
The other said, “Sure, go ahead.”

He plugged it in, saying, “A friend of mine took this a couple of weeks ago.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll see.”
A video started to play. Staring at the screen, he asked, “What am I looking at here?”
“In short, Landfill Pit 9B.”
“I don’t see…”
“Just watch,” the theorist interrupted, “it only goes for a couple of minutes. Watch it first.” When it ended, he turned to his friend. “Did you see that? Did you see what was being tipped into the pit?”
The other just shrugged. “Well, rubbish, I suppose. That’s what rubbish tips are for, right?”
“Yes, but that’s not rubbish!”
“It isn’t?”
“No, my friend. That’s recycling material. You know, the stuff that’s put into special bins. It’s meant to be kept separate, of course. Let me show you.”
He ran it again, but stopped it at the point where it was cascading out of the back of the truck. “There!” he cried, pointing to the screen. See that? That’s not rubbish. These are items that have been saved for recycling. Look, paper, cardboard, newspapers, magazines, bottles, jars, milk cartons, aluminium cans, aerosol cans and other stuff. All items that people have gone to the trouble of separating!”
His friend was impressed with what he saw. With a questioning look, he said, “And your friend, what does he have to say about all this?”
‘Nothing, I’m afraid.”
“He must be a fellow conspiracy theorist like yourself.”
“He was.”
“What do you mean, he was?”
“Ah! He hasn’t been heard of for a while.”
“What do you mean? Where is he?”
“Officially, he’s listed as a missing person.”
“And unofficially?”
“Unofficially, Pit 9B.”

He was about to open the door when he saw it.
He had worked late in the office. It was dark in the open air carpark behind the building. It had been the briefest of moments, but he had registered the transaction in the few seconds that he stood watching. He recognise one of the men, a well-known politician. He was on the TV news regularly. He didn’t know the other, the man handing over a fat envelope. He shouldn’t have unlocked the car. He should have stayed silent, ducked down even; but he didn’t. The ‘blip’ of his car when he pressed the button on the remote made the men swing around. He had been seen. Acting as casually as possible, he climbed in, started the engine and drove out of the carpark.
That was yesterday.
He knows he had witnessed something he really shouldn’t have. There was nothing he could do about that. This night he had stayed even later. He looked down at the carpark from time to time, watching it empty. He was prepared to be the last to leave; to satisfy himself that he wouldn’t be followed. It was all he could do. It was very late when he went up to the third floor window to check. There were only two cars left; his and one other. A large, black, shiny saloon with tinted windows. He recognised it. It was the car the men had stood by the night before. As he watched, a door flew open and a man dressed in dark clothing jumped out. He stood looking up for a moment, then marched quickly towards the building.

The witness realised that he’d been seen. He raced out to the lifts. He was already on the top floor. He opened the door to the roof and ran up the stairs. He came out onto a vast, flat roof that covered the building. There was nowhere to hide! As he stood there in the quiet of the night, he heard the whine of the lift coming up. He had nowhere to run. He walked to the far edge and looked down. He heard the sound of the lift stop. He stood frozen until the man appeared. He had a gun; it was pointed at him. He looked back down again. He would never survive the fall. The man was moving closer, walking slowly, arm straight out, holding the gun. He knew that either the fall or a bullet would kill him.
The man was now in front of him, with the barrel pressed against his chest. He looked apologetic when he said, “I’m sorry about this. I’m sure you realise, I have no choice.” He thrust the gun forward and the other toppled backwards over the edge.
As he bounced in the safety net, the director shouts “Cut!”

She was no longer prepared to put up with his strange behaviour.
It was not a case of her being unaware of his weirdness, she’d known about that from the day she moved in with him. It was the weird practice of what he called ‘water gathering’ that she just couldn’t stand any longer. It seemed to be some sort of eighteenth-century ritual that he felt compelled to carry out on a regular basis. She could never see the point of it. After all, every tap in the unit had hot and cold running water: the shower worked just fine and the toilet flushed. It just seemed so much trouble to go to. Climbing up all that way to the town’s water reservoir just to get what was such a relatively small volume of water.
For her, the big wakeup call came when they both lost their footing coming down. Then, there was the bizarre business of him wrapping paper, soaked in something that smelt horrible around his head; some quaint old remedy, apparently. At the same time, she had been just about covered with bruises. It was at this point that she fully realised that he was a complete nutter.
Her bags were packed and she’d be long gone by the time he got home.
She sat, scribbling a note that she’d leave under a fridge magnet.
It read, ‘Sorry, couldn’t put up with it any longer. Goodbye and thanks for nothing. By the way, I put a big hole in your bucket!
Jill.’

She looked at the clock, knowing that hospital afternoon visits were two hours away.
A week ago she’d been told that it was only a matter of days. Considering her age and the fact that she was being made very comfortable by the nurses, she was quite content to end her days where she was. How much better than the way so many poor souls pass on, she thought. She had had a good long life, she considered, and had nothing to complain about. The only disappointment she felt was about her neighbour and very best friend that hadn’t visited during the morning, the way she normally did. They had known each other for just about the whole of their long lives and had always been very close.

She looks at the clock again. Maybe, she wasn’t able to make it and will visit this afternoon, she thought. She really hoped so, because the tiredness that had been growing over the past few days was becoming more intense. She was sure that she was coming to the end. It would have been lovely to see her just one last time. While she was thinking this, she began to slip into sleep.
The movement at the side of the bed woke her. She turned and saw her friend pulling up a chair and smiling. “Sorry I couldn’t make it earlier, dear,” she said, making herself comfortable.
“I’m so glad you could make it, because I think the time for me is close. It’s lovely to see you.” She looked at the clock and said in a weakening voice, “Ah! They let you in early I see. I’m sure that’s because they all know you here. It has been so good to see you each day. I can’t tell you how much your visits have meant to me.” Her friend took her hand and gave it a squeeze.
Minutes later, the nurse and the doctor were by her bed. The doctor was entering the time of death on her chart when he said, “I must say the timing is a relief for me.” He hung the clipboard back at the end of the bed. He let out a sigh. “I know how close she was to her friend. She was always talking about her. Once visiting hours had started I felt I should come and let her know that she won’t be visiting because she had a heart attack this morning and died before she arrived at the hospital. I wasn’t looking forward to telling her that.”

The billionaire had made his money and his empire ran itself.
He no longer needed to be on board. Those left in charge were capable of seeing that global profits only went up. He had worked hard to build what he had and was now intent on pulling back, pulling away. He had been planning his getaway to a hidey-hole for some time. It was finally settled with everything payed for. The deeds for the castle were now in his possession and he had made arrangements for his new life to be catered for with a selected vehicle and living-in staff all hired and in place. In short, the various hiring agencies and providers he had employed assured him that everything was as requested and in place, and all would be ready on his arrival in a quaint little town in Eastern Europe. The building was extremely old but quite magnificent. This fact that it was indeed a castle served to take care of one of his whims of childhood. Despite his being a hardened business man he had many of these.
It had come to his notice, while researching the history of his new home, that his own somewhat unusual family name being Rankenbine, did have a similar sound to the name Frankenstein, for the untrained ear. Such a thought was dismissed at the time, being seen as just another echo back to his childhood whims.
On arrival, he met the staff and thanked them all for being prepared to both serve him as master of the castle and to take care of and maintain such a large property. He noted a degree of nervousness, an emotion that they all seemed to have in common. He imagined that, peasants as they were, coming face to face with an illustrious man of wealth coming from the west, was likely to have this sort of effect at first. In the early few days, he chose to spend time familiarising himself with the town. He went for several walks, looking at shops and buildings, occasionally entering an establishment to make himself known as their new neighbour. Doing this, he detected the same presence of anxiety he had seen displayed by his employees. Even in the streets, he was aware of receiving odd looks from the locals.
His favourite room in the castle was the study that had been set up according to his instructions. He had chosen the furnishings and was pleased to find that the large desk he had chosen was located by the window as requested. This gave him an expansive view of the front grounds and the long driveway up to the building. He felt sure that in this peaceful and secluded place he would spend many an idyllic evening with no thought if anything other than his own well-deserved comfort.
No more than a week had gone by when, on one such quiet evening, while smoking a cigar and reading Dickens, his spell was broken. The silence was broken. He became aware of a growing cacophony of voices coming from outside. He pulled back the curtain a little and saw a great procession of people, far greater than the population of the town, slowly making their way towards the castle. Most were carrying torches. They all seemed to be armed with pointed staffs, pitchforks and scythes. The blazing procession grew nearer and the chanting louder.

It was only an ancient whim that stirred the peasants. Such townspeople and those from surrounding villages had long memories, going back generations.
They seemed to be chanting his name… or was it that other one?

He loved spending time in his garden, especially at the front.
The rose bushes that formed a hedge along the front of his property were his pride and joy; probably more pride than joy. For him, putting on his gloves and taking up his special pruning shears, made him a man with a purpose. These beautiful bushes, were, after all, what passers-by saw. They made a statement. He had planted them all himself and it was this pruning routine that gave him the greatest pleasure. This precious activity was brought to a halt when the man appeared.
“I should turn myself in,” was the first thing he said, looking around nervously. He went on with a crazed look in his eyes. “I know I should. It’s only a matter of time.”
The man waved his shears. “Sorry. Do I know you?”
“Probably not, I live a couple of streets over from here. But, that doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’ve killed her! I finally did it. I could see it coming. I knew it would happen eventually if she kept seeing… him!”
“Ehm. You’re not making much sense.”
The man lifted two bloody hands. “I’m on the run, you see,” he said. “Well, I think I am.” He stood thinking. “Maybe not. I know where he lives. Two murders? What’s the difference? I’m going out of my mind. Two murders or one, what difference could it make? Yes, I know where he lives. He caused all this!” He pulled a large, stained kitchen knife from the back of his belt and held it up. “Yes. I know what to do now, thank you.” With this, he ran off laughing maniacally, and shouting, “Yes! Yes!”
The gardener leaned forward, parting the thorny stems and watched the man racing up the street at great speed. As he did this, he noticed something that horrified him. The blood ran cold in his veins as he pulled on the stem with a trembling hand to inspect the leaf.

With a short cry of, “Black Spot!” he dropped his pruners and ran to the shed for his fungicide spray.

He had heard about this weird animal, but had never really believed any of the stories.
All reports of sightings had only mentioned a single creature. It had been described as a cross between a guineapig and a small Pomeranian dog. Because it was seen eating grass on all of these occasions, it was deemed to be a ruminant. However, to make all of this more unbelievable, one eye witness claimed that the creature had several bouts of loud flatulence. On the other hand, this did add some credence to what this type of animal might be, since ruminants are known to regularly pass amounts of methane. The fact was, he didn’t believe any of it.
That was the case, until he was out in the bush one night with his telescope, looking at the stars. He did this occasionally. If the weather was right he would pack up his tent and sleeping bag and take off. It was his own private getaway. It was while on one of these trips that things changed. He’d been heating up a simple meal over a small fire before climbing into his sleeping bag for the night when he heard something. It started as a rustle coming from the nearby scrub. Although there was not enough light to make out what it was, he could clearly see movement. This was followed by a long period of silence.
Then, he was stoking his tiny camp fire when this strange creature approached, nervously. It was obviously hungry. The thing certainly corresponded to all of the descriptions he’d heard. He proceeded to brake off several pieces of bread and throw them towards the thing. It came forward and gobbled them up. It seemed to him that the thing was desperately hungry, because there was no hesitation about coming right up towards the fire for the scraps that were being thrown down. He couldn’t help feeling sorry for the odd-looking animal. He got up and slowly walked around to the other side of the fire, where he scattered more pieces of food. He then returned to his spot. What he had in mind worked. The animal came right up and began eating greedily. He sat, watching through the flames, as the little fellow munched away.
It was then that it happened. Being so close to the fire and letting go of a huge amount of methane all at once, the creature’s rear end caught fire, at which point it shot straight up with a trail of fire, lifting it higher and higher.

It was never seen again!

She was gazing out of the kitchen window, thinking about all of the troubles in the world.
There was so much going on. It was on the television, in the papers, on her mobile phone; it was everywhere. Constant warnings about how truly bad world events were getting. The unemployment figures were on the rise again, the education sector’s in turmoil, religious conflicts were escalating, not enough was being done about world-wide poverty, there were more and more cases of racial discrimination, and so many wars were going on around the world.
She shook her head.
Her cat nudged her ankle.
Ecosystems are being destroyed, overpopulation was threatening sustainability, biodiversity was not being properly protected, there was a lot of indiscriminate deforestation going on, and a lack of proper gun control.
She sighed audibly.
Her cat nudged her ankle, again.
There are mounting humanitarian crises happening around the globe, and of course, there’s global warming, with not enough being done to combat climate change, and behind all this, almost forgotten, there was the ever present threat of nuclear war. She couldn’t help wondering, are we all heading towards some sort of apocalypse?
Her cat nudged her ankle, again, harder.
Then, realising she was working herself up into a state, she looked down and asked herself, am I feeding him enough?

As he entered the patient’s room, he could hardly believe his eyes.
It would have been extremely hard for him to express the emotions that flooded through him at that moment; not that anybody would have asked, of course. This was just something that only he knew about. This was about him, the man in the bed. He recognised him immediately. This was the man in the park, the day his best friend was injured. He saw how it had happened. It was a momentary thing. His dog, Muffin, was such a loving animal and his main companion since his wife had passed away with a medical condition that was even beyond his own professional calling to cure. That had been the day it had been so viciously booted on its rump. The dog had unwittingly crossed this man’s path, causing him to trip and nearly fall over. What happened next was hard to watch, even from a distance. This brute had kicked him. From where he stood, holding his dog’s lead, he had heard Muffin’s yelp.

Later that day, the vet was as disturbed by the brutality of the incident as the owner, but he said there were no bones broken and that medication and time would do the healing. Muffin was obviously in pain and for several long days had spent time indoors, limping around the house.
The patient in the bed was asleep, but had been insisting that he receive something stronger for the pain. The doctor paused to consider for the briefest moment. After all, it was about Muffin; it was about cruelty. When the nurse returned, he would make sure she saw his note.
‘No painkillers, for religious reasons.’

From the beginning, the youngster had taken a liking to English, it was his favourite subject.
He was always learning new words. The lessen he enjoyed most was when, after being given a new word, they had to stand up in class and use it in three different sentences. The teacher told the class that once you have used a word three times, you own it forever. This classroom exercise happened once a week and he always looked forward to it. Sometimes the teacher would let a pupil use a new word they had discovered. This was the case when he had been given a new word by the older boy who worked on the construction site near the school. He was told the word was kind of special because it gave an extra punch to what was said.

When his favourite classroom exercise came around again, the teacher was happy to give his permission to use his new word. When his turn came, he stood up. First, he told the class about the time his neighbour had brought his hammer down on his thumb, and how they could hear him shouting; then he described how his auntie had protested angrily when she was arrested for embezzlement; then he explained what their former priest was caught doing with the lady that used to arrange the flowers.
It has to be said that it was this incident that brought home to him just how powerful a word can be…