Author: Alexander Fawn

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…

From the mountains in the west and the east, the great waters flow.
These high grounds have been swept with heavy rain. The waters of the west build and make their way diagonally south, toward the sea. Those of the east, likewise accumulate and travel at a steady angle south, towards the same ocean. Each body of water singular and distinct, as they travel south. Each its own entity. Their separate journeys now rush towards the inevitable joining place. This is the point at which these individual gatherings of water are destined to come together at the great ‘Y’, carved into the land. As they approach, there is no slowing.

It is here that the waters tumble, one against the other in a great broiling contest. As they come together, connect and collide, there is a mighty tumbling of froth and white water. It is a confluence of the rushing bodies. For each, their paths become a single, unavoidable channel. Beneath, a bubbling current is disturbed and turbulence rises to the surface. The battle is evident. It is on display. Together, these contentious, agitated flows move swiftly on.
The tree they approach is a landmark in their tumbling journey. It is here that the great tree hangs its leafy branches across the rushing waters. It looks on, as only a great tree can, at the battling entities. The scene is not new to it. It is repeated with the seasons and the weather. It has seen it all before. It knows that this battle to retain individuality will end soon.
It knows what lays beyond, well before the sea. It knows that before they become one with the vast ocean ahead, these competing rivers that strive to maintain their separate identities are about to mix through the mighty blending. It will be the ultimate churn, the final collision, the massive drop. A powerful mixing that will sweep away any attempt to remain apart.
It watches as they race each other south, as they fly, unstoppable towards the mighty waterfall…

As usual, he was half a wake when the alarm sounded.
He shut it off quickly and lay still for a while. Without disturbing the bed too much, he slid out and pulled on his dressing gown in the dark. It was his special routine. He went through to the waiting kettle, already topped up. He switched it on and dropped two teabags into their best teacups. While it was boiling, he slipped bread into the toaster and turned it on. In the following minutes he laid the table with plates, marmalade, and a knife placed alongside of the butter dish. Not an expensive piece of crockery, but they had always treated it with care. He had won it for her at the fair. She had told him how beautiful it was. He stood for a while remembering the look in her eyes that night.

The clicking of kitchen appliances brought him back. He poured the tea and buttered the toast. He sat at the table and reluctantly allowed his special routine to end. For the first time that morning, like every other morning since…
…he looked across at the empty chair.

She was in the supermarket when she saw the time.
The elderly shopper looked at her basket; only a couple of items to go. She could still make it home in time for his call. He always called at the same time. That way it didn’t put anybody out too much. He was always very regular. She hurried on through the crowds and made it in good time to her little car. On the way out she saw the line of cars building. Everyone seemed to be leaving at once! She just needed to be patient. Minutes later, out on the main road, it all stopped again; some sort of roadworks, with traffic cones. They hadn’t been there earlier. Some sort of emergency work, no doubt.

Why today, of all days? She looked at the time again. She wondered if she could take a different route to save time, but realised she couldn’t. She would just have to stick it out.
She finally arrived with just seconds to spare. As she opened the door she heard it ringing. Just as she dropped the shopping bags onto the counter, it stopped. She sighed and shook her head. The care home was pretty strict about how often they wheeled the phone trolley around. She would put the cold stuff in the fridge and call back. She was sure they would understand. After all, she thought, everybody runs late sometimes. With the last of the items put away she went to the phone. She stood looking at it. A shiver went through her body and she felt the tears welling. She slowly made her way to the chair. She sat for a long time, sobbing.
How could she possibly forget…?

In a bookshop, on a shelf,
In a book, and on a page.
The essence of immortality,
In a constant golden age.
–
It’s very hard to say
Where they are more prized.
At home, oddly scattered,
Or in a library, categorized.
–
We place our own value
On what the stories say,
Or what the poems tell us,
What the words convey.
–
Stories filled with people,
None of which we’ll meet,
Buildings, rooms, roads and paths,
Where we’ll never place our feet.
–
Through their smell and feel,
They hold the test of time.
Ideas embalmed in books,
From ignoble to sublime.
–
A single, worded page.
Such intimacy it brooks.
And where the gentle reader finds,
The companionship of books.