Author: Alexander Fawn

They stood looking, bewildered by the vast array of paint cans.

She had announced that their plans to redecorate had been put on hold for far too long. He wasn’t too sure what she had in mind, but it could be mostly doors, walls and ceilings. Although initially overwhelmed by the sheer variety of colours, she began working her way along the shelves, murmuring as she went. He noticed that she seemed to be placing a lot of emphasis on what they were called. Trying to help, he picked up a sample colour card. It was pale lemon.

“This might be a good colour for the door at the end of the hall,” he said.

She shook her head. “Not really, that’s a sour colour, don’t you think? Here’s a nice blue for the bedroom walls.” She held up a card.

It was a very strong colour, so he found something a lot lighter and softer. “This might be nicer.” The card read, ‘Blue Mist’.

She frowned. “Blue Mist, I don’t thinks so. I don’t like the cold or the humidity, you know that!”

“How about Lavender?” he said, holding up another card, not to be put off.

“Oh! No! Don’t you remember how I had that terrible fit of sneezing when we were at that lavender farm last year?”

Hiding his sense of confusion, he said, “That’s right, of course.” He was beginning to wish he was somewhere else. He decided to give it one more go. He found a very attractive, subtle orange. It was a gentle colour that he thought would look good in the kitchen. He waved the card. “This would be a nice colour for the kitchen, don’t you think?”

She came closer, nodding, looking interested. She took the card. Her nodding changed to shaking. She looked up at him with tears forming in her eyes. “Begonia,” she whispered. “They were my mother’s favourite.” She took a tissue from her bag. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

“Sorry, dear,” he said in a low voice, “I might be better at checking out brushes and rollers and things…”

Taking out another tissue, she smiled and nodded.

With great relief he went off to lose himself among the brushes…

He’d had the flu for three weeks!

It would be the sort of understatement that you’d only hear from a politician who was being really nice to someone he really hated from an opposing party, to say that he was sick of it. Once more he came home from the pickle-canning factory, and a day of having a runny nose and watery eyes. At least the masks they wore, the ones everybody was compelled to wear, disguised the fact that he was highly contagious. As he entered the lobby, his perfunctory collection of mail from his box was brought to a halt by a surprise. This came in the form of a small, heavily-padded package, covered with important-looking stickers. It was an advertising gimmick, no doubt, and it was over an hour and several tissues later before he examined it again.

On closer inspection, it was from a Chinese herbal medicine company. When opened, he discovered a tiny pill box containing only four tablets.

This in itself was intriguing enough, but reading the enclosed paperwork was an absolute show-stopper! According to this, the consignment, which had been paid for, was valued at twenty-thousand dollars!

Now, blowing his nose yet again, he was staring at the pills. The incredible fact that each pill was worth five thousand dollars, was slowly sinking in. He looked back at the address. It read 42, not 24. It had been misdelivered; meant for someone else in the building. Yes… that kindly old Chinese couple that live up on 42. They were nice, he’d often spoken to them.

He kept reading. The leaflet explained that each tablet would provide perfect health, guaranteed for a decade. He needed to think very carefully before taking the next step. What he was looking at, was obviously the closest you could get to anti-aging.

Several days later, his bank account was cleaned out and he had sold off several of his personal items.

On the bus to the airport, he took all three pills with a swig from his water bottle.

The committee needed to redraft the application form.

The five members sat around the table reviewing the current document. It had been in use for some time, but recent changes in the law meant that this version was no longer appropriate. They needed to remove those sections that were unfairly biased against gender and race. They also needed to consider the fact that nothing should remain that would potentially discriminate against any applicant based on socioeconomic factors. With this in mind, they read through the categories, these being date of birth, educational requirements, graduation date, race inquiries, citizenship, criminal history, salary history, military discharge information, previous sick days used in employment, and social security number. Then they considered which of the categories of information applied and which didn’t. They spent the better part of the day working on it.

Finally, all sections of the original form that dealt with such things were removed. The outcome of this being a blank sheet of paper, except for the heading ‘Application Form’. After deciding that the heading was entirely appropriate, it was agreed that they leave it in.

Following a protracted period of discussion, based on the group’s agreement that the primary purpose of the form was to collect relevant and required information from the applicant, it was decided to place the following instruction beneath the title.

‘Please use this form to provide information that is both relevant and required’.

Simply put, there is nothing remarkable about it; this unobserved journey having taken place so many times before.

It begins in the dark canopy, a tiny unseen severance, a snap barely heard. An invisible movement, unlit by the merest sliver of moon. It tumbles with others to the forest floor.

For a while the twig lays still.

Through the long dark hours of night it tumbles occasionally, tossed around in random patterns with others of its kind. As the morning wind rises with the sun, its progress towards the river bank increases. The gentle waters that snake through this wooded place will eventually take it.

Day by day it is swept across the forest floor, along with other finished pieces of nature. At the appointed time it is swept down the bank and taken by the water. A narrow stream that glides slowly through its allotted passage.

It floats now, snagging occasionally, each time freeing again to move on. Many more days of this pass before the widening river meets the sea. There, it is taken out by the tides, to be swallowed by the vast waters.

There, to be forever lost in the great ocean.

There is nothing remarkable about it; this unobserved journey having taken place so many times before.

–

…or, one may say…

It is, by its very nature, an iterative event meaning very little or nothing at all to most that walk this world.

Why is this so?

Should all of humankind be taking notice?

Should they want to know its every stage?

Is it generally considered to be of little importance, with nothing remarkable about it; this unobserved journey, it having taken place so many times before?

It begins in the dark canopy, a tiny unseen severance, a snap barely heard.

How powerful would be the feeling, the experience of being close enough to hear the sound made, amid all others, way above the forest floor.

Meantime, it continues. An invisible movement, unlit by the merest sliver of moon.

It tumbles with others to nature’s floor.

For a while the twig lays still.

To be there at that moment, as it settles, would be for some, precious.

Then, to witness, as through the long dark hours of night it tumbles occasionally, tossed around in random patterns with others of its kind.

To be there, as the morning wind rises with the sun, and its progress towards the river bank increases.

From moment to moment this could be seen.

The gentle waters that snake through this wooded place will eventually take it.

A patient observer would watch and wait.

Day by day it is swept across the ground’s scatterings, along with other finished pieces of nature.

The onlooker would have no concern about how much of this random time is taken.

At the appointed time it is swept down the bank and taken by the water.

This watcher follows.

A narrow stream glides slowly through its allotted passage.

Look on.

It floats now, snagging occasionally, each time freeing again to move on.

Watch.

Many more days of this pass before the widening river meets the sea.

See this.

There, it is taken out by the tides, to be swallowed by the vast waters.

Here, lost from sight.

There, it is swallowed, to be forever lost in the great ocean.

Can it really be that there is nothing remarkable about it; because this unobserved journey has taken place so many times before?

It sounds rather silly, but he had a crush on her when they were both five years old.

Well, it was something far more than a crush, really. All through their school years his obsession with her grew. Every chance he got he would make himself known and often expressed his undying love for her. He hoped that she would regard his persistence as something special and return his feelings for her, but this wasn’t the case. When they left school, he studied economics before taking a position with a Management Consultancy firm, while she filled shelves at a supermarket, before she left and spent time selling drugs before taking up prostitution. Despite their different callings, he continued to make contact with her as often as he could, still maintaining that they could have a very happy life if they spent it together. On each occasion she made it clear that she wasn’t interested.

Of course, this didn’t deter him and he continued, year after year, beseeching her to share her life with him. This was the case until she felt that she had no choice but to report him for stalking. Regardless of the police knowing her background, she was supported the day she reported him as a stalker. The case went to court and a restraining order was issued. For a long time following this, she was free of his unwanted attentions.

However, this situation changed the night she was with several friends in her favourite nightclub. It was a full house on the night of the incident. She would have had no idea that he was there, staying well out of sight, but watching her nevertheless with a burning passion and a never-ending infatuation. She was happily dancing when the fire started; they all were. It quickly spread to the ceiling and the panic ensued. He saw this chance to save her and was fighting his way through the chaotic crowd when the ceiling collapsed.

A dozen or more people died that night, including them. They were staring at each other in disbelief, having been ushered into an empty waiting room by two attendants with walkie-talkies. On the far side there were two lifts. It was evident that one went up and the other went down. One of the attendants, no doubt receiving orders, began to gather a small number in front of the down lift and pressed a button. After a few moments, the doors opened and the group was herded in. Just as the doors were closing, the unrequited lover jumped in after them.

It was at the Gates of Hell that the whole thing ended badly for him.

They wouldn’t let him in!

Sometimes being different is seen by others in different lights.

This undeniable, if somewhat obscure aphorism, may not have helped the girl from the village, had she thought about it. We’ll never know. As a person, she was much like anyone else; a bit brighter, maybe. Because she was known as such in the small community, it was no big surprise when she was awarded a scholarship. This would undoubtedly assure her of great prospects and a wonderful future. For her, this turn of events had the downside of being packed off to a normally extremely expensive private school. This was not seen by others. It was there, in a town far from home and in short order, she was seen as being different. Of course, in the whole scheme of things, she was!

The only thing that made her at least look like the other girls was what she regarded as a starchy uniform. Beyond this, she was nothing like the others and their attitude towards her as a newcomer kept in place this feeling of being generally not belonging and in fact unwanted. As the first few unpleasant weeks dragged by, the sniggering and avoidance slowly became overt ridicule. Her humble beginnings were often alluded to.

When the very much anticipated time came for her to return home, the level of excitement was something she had never felt before. The break would probably give her time to adjust somehow. Maybe see the situation from the outside looking in? She wasn’t sure. She looked forward to catching up with the friends that she had been separated from over that first period away. She was surprised to find that for many, their attitudes had changed. Even her best friend had strange ideas about how she just wasn’t the same. How could she be? Her elevation to a posh school was often alluded to.

On her return to what was generally seen as the better school, she found that a far greater tendency was to keep herself to herself. As far as her studies were concerned, she no longer had the drive and enthusiasm for the learning process that was there in spades in her former life. Her poor performance in this respect added to the derision and the feeling of alienation. She was becoming acutely aware of the two worlds that she was living between. Neither of which accepted her and in neither of which she belonged.

She knew that as a person, she was much like anyone else; a bit brighter, maybe, but knowing this didn’t help. It didn’t ease the anguish that now built steadily or the interminable loneliness that she now felt in this separate world. Over a traumatic period she tried to claw back that former person that she was comfortable with. She tried really hard, but failed.

Back home, at her service, those private feelings of annoyance over a girl that had waisted such a wonderful opportunity were unspoken.

It was so hard to understand why she would do such a thing.

He was quite sure the man wanted by the police was still in the house.

He also felt sure he could talk the man into giving himself up. They could talk it over between themselves first, then they could go together to the police station where the man could make a full statement, putting himself on the path of recovery. Facing the consequences now would lead on to a much better and happier future for him. When he approached the house, he found the front door was partly open. He went in and began searching each room, carefully. In the living room, at the front of the house, he found a large machete, just lying on a table. He moved on, going from room to room. He called out a few times, but there was no response. Maybe he was wrong. The murderer may have slipped out unnoticed.

Checking through all of the rooms again he returned to the living room. His blood ran cold when he saw that the machete was no longer there. At that same moment he could just hear the front door being closed, very quietly.

A long, long time ago, in the town of Nebazon, there lived a young woman named Maud. She was engaged to be married to Jonathon, a carpenter. Jonathan was a nice enough chap; not very bright, but he was nice enough.

His fiancée, Maud, was looking a little full around the middle. She was an attractive young thing and pretty smart. At least, she knew Jonathon wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, so to speak. It was his habit to call on her on his way to work.

Anyway, this particular morning she found Jonathon staring at her.

The conversation went something like this…

Maud: What’s up?

Jonathon: Oh, nothing.

Maud: No. Come on; what is it?

Jonathon: Well, it’s just that you are looking a bit…

Maud: A bit what?

Jonathon: A bit plump, I suppose. I know you’ve been throwing up in the morning.

Maud: Yes. OK. I’m pregnant.

Jonathon: Pregnant! How is that possible? We haven’t…

Maud: No. We haven’t.

Jonathon: Well, how did it happen?

Maud: How do you think?

Jonathon: I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking you. I mean, you’re still a virgin, right?

Maud: Yes, of course I am.

Jonathon: Well?

Maud: God did it.

Jonathon: You had sex with…?

Maud: No! No! Of course not. He just snapped his fingers and did one of those miracle things he does, and made me pregnant.

Jonathon:  God made you pregnant?

Maud: Yes.

Jonathon: Wow! That’s really cool.

Maud: You think so?

Jonathon: Yes. That is so cool.

Maud: Right.

Jonathon: Well? Don’t you?

Maud: Um… yes, yes, I suppose it’s really great!

Jonathon: Wow! We have to let people know about this.

Maud: Maybe we should just keep this between just the two of us… for now, anyway.

Jonathon: No! We can’t keep a thing like this to ourselves.

Maud: You think?

Jonathon: Sure! This is far too important to keep quiet about. Come on! Let’s go!

Minutes later they are standing in the main square of Nebazon, with a small crowd gathering around them, including the town’s head rabbi.

The discussion went something like this…

Rabbi: What’s this all about, Jonathon? I trust there’s a good reason for calling people together like this?

Jonathon: Go ahead, Maud! Tell them. Tell them what you told me.

Maud: Eh! God made me pregnant.

Rabbi: Now, Jonathon, you know you’re not supposed to do that before…

Jonathon: No! No! You don’t get it! She’s still a virgin! God made her pregnant… you know …directly!

Villager One: So, what you’re saying here, basically… is that Maud tells you she’s a virgin. Right?

Jonathon: Right.

Villager Two: And you haven’t had sex with her.

Jonathon: Right.

Villager Three: And now she’s pregnant.

Jonathon: Yes.

Villager Four: So you think that God did it?

Jonathon: Well. Yes. What other explanation could there be?

Rabbi: Well, I must say, that is just so…

Jonathon: Yes?

Rabbi: It is just so…

Jonathon: Yes?

Rabbi: It is just so… wonderful! It’s a miracle!

Villager Five: A miracle! A miracle right here in Nebazon!

Villager Six: Wow! I thought that miracles only happened in Jerusalem!

Villager Seven: People of Nebazon! Let us spread the good news!

Later in the morning Maud is chatting with her best friend, Beryl.

The discussion went something like this…

Beryl: God did it?

Maud: I Know. I panicked!  It was all I could think of at the time.

Beryl: So who’s the real…? OK. OK. I won’t ask. Oh! I get it. So, that’s why the rabbi went along with it.

Maud: Well, put it like this; he thinks he’s the father.

Beryl: Well, you seem to have got away with it anyway.

Maud: Yes, but…

Beryl: What?

Maud: I feel as if everything’s getting out of hand. I mean, what kind of thing is this to have hanging over my kid’s head?

Beryl: No! Don’t fret. No one’s going to care about this for too long. Give it a couple of months and the whole thing will probably blow over.

Maud: I hope you’re right…

Not everybody would choose to live the way he does.

His shack is buried deep in the forest. His provisions and needs are basic. His contact with the outside world close to non-existent. One might well imagine that leaving the bustle of life behind, withdrawing from civilisation, choosing a way of life that allows him to live life as nature intended was his primary aim. From an early age he had always enjoyed the bounties of the forest, his long walks with his father, himself very much a lover of nature. On the face of it, you would think that this existence, this attempt to become one with his natural environment, to blend in with the forest, this desire to get close to the natural world, to live in harmony with Mother Nature, was all that drove him. You would think that.

However, despite its outward appearance, the shack’s interior is quite luxuriously appointed, with all weapons and unregistered cell phone provided by the Black Ops division of MI7.

On call 24/7.

Entering the world of fantasy,

While working with keyboard and pen,

Is easily done, when first begun,

By founding the where and the when.

–

Time away allows thoughts to gel;

A sense of solitude pushing through.

Will wisdom let you draw it in?

Will time allow it to brew?

–

Mollified by the quietude,

It surprisingly sets in motion

An allowance from the order of nature itself

To have fantasy procure a notion.

–

Allowing wandering thoughts to take form,

There are pleasing mysteries there.

Whimsical daydreams, hardly in focus,

And beckoning fantasies to embrace without care.

–

Imperfections surface, while the senses dance.

A maze appears, and a boundary’s crossed.

A notion takes hold, but is not understood.

A truth comes to light, but in moments is lost.

–

Based on things whether known or not,

But made manifest in a growing passion.

Seeing nuances revealed at a distance,

Interpreting, after a fashion.

–

Tampering with that which is way beyond grasp.

Attempting to transcend space.

Avoiding the scars of words unspoken.

Treating the unholy with grace.

–

Concepts unfold like gentle whispers.

Listen, lest the words take flight.

They give birth to a borrowed serenity,

While setting each nuance alight.

–

Epiphanies in time become mundane,

While continually taking stock,

Forever wandering in a single moment,

Yet filtered by the clock.

–

Retracing the steps made in moments passed,

Or content to just endlessly roam.

By some strange syncopation, the world runs on,

And the present moment eventually comes home.

–

Does the circling of birds stir the plot?

Does the breeze blow in something new?

Does the setting of the sun settle what’s done?

And what will the morning bring into view?

–

All rhythms and rhymes, slowly fade,

And the climb becomes more steep.

Allow all the clamour to drift away,

With the safety net of sleep.

–

All of this is easily done,

By creating the where and the when.

Just to be, by the sea, while holding the key,

To chalet number ten.