Author: Alexander Fawn

The physician sat thinking about the incident.

What the neighbour had done was truly horrible. It had been dark on the evening he’d stepped out into the back garden to call his cat in. He hadn’t even began to call when he heard loud feline swearing coming from the garden next door. This was followed by a mixture of a cat’s squealing and a man’s mumbling. He had trouble believing what he saw next. His neighbour approached the low dividing fence and swinging the cat by one of its hind legs, he tossed it over! Frozen to the spot, the whole affair had left him so dumbstruck that he heard his neighbour’s door slam shut well before he was able to move. Remarkably, his precious cat seemed agitated and spooked by the ordeal, but otherwise unharmed.

Weeks passed before his neighbour came into the surgery. He’d treated him for years. He’d always come across as somewhat sullen, but had never given the impression that he could be capable of such wickedness. He came in complaining about chest pains. There was barely any hesitation on the doctor’s part. A simple injection would do the trick.

 After a couple of days, it did. The contents of the syringe would never be identified. He had signed the death certificate and the case was closed.

He squirmed on his seat a little at the thought of it. He well knew there was a morality issue that had to be faced. There was an inevitable scale to be considered. A weighing up between his taking the Hippocratic Oath and his lifelong membership of the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.

There was guilt on one side and celebration on the other.

He smiled up at the barman and ordered another Martini!

When he was a kid he’d visit his grandpa a lot.

He was a funny old man who was always playing the old six inch vinyls on his equally old machine. He was a great fan of Buddy Holly & The Crickets. Buddy was a popular rock and roll singer from the fifties. His favourite song was ‘That’ll Be The Day’. Unfortunately, because it had been played so often it ended up getting scratched. Every time it got to the part where he sings, ‘Cause that’ll be the day, when I die’, the needle started jumping, and the phrase, ‘when I die’, just keeps repeating over and over. Whenever this happened, the old man would pretend to jump, as though he wasn’t expecting it. He’d say, “Oh! No!” and go over to it and give the needle a tap. The boy would laugh at this performance and the old man would laugh with him.

That was a good while ago now, and his grandpa has long since passed away.

As for the whole phrase, it just doesn’t bring happiness any more.

She woke from a horrible dream, sweaty and tangled in bedding.

She lay there breathing heavily. She looked at the clock. The alarm wouldn’t go off for over half-an-hour, so she could lay there, clawing it all back. It was vivid in her mind. It was all about falling, but never quite hitting the ground; and it was repetitive, very much so. She knew where she was in the dream. It was a picnic spot she would go to with the family before she moved out. It was a great, grassy area near the sea. Part of the grounds had been fenced off because the cliff edge was deemed to be unsafe. Somehow, she was there, passed the fencing, walking along the edge when it collapsed under her feet. She was falling down the cliff face. Falling, that is until she managed to wildly lash out and grab a flimsy tree root coming through the rock face.

She sighed heavily as she lay there having a clear picture of that moment in the dream. The feeling of relief. The terror she had felt slowly subsiding. The feeling of hope, of rescue, of climbing back up. Then, the first of the repeated events. The root began to come away from the crevice and she was losing her grip at the same time. It was that ghastly moment that would be repeated throughout the nightmare. Would the root come loose or would it slip through her fingers? Each time she actually lost her grip. Each time she began falling again. Each time she would grab hold of a root to stop her fall, but every time this happened, it was the same root! The very same root, over and over…

She was slowly coming out of it all. Gradually coming back to the real world and feeling a lot better. In fact, she must have dozed off for a while, because the alarm woke her. She lay there again, thinking about the dreadful night she’d had. This time she was able to let it all go a lot quicker. Her mind turned to the things that she had to do today; the bit of shopping that she must remember to do when she leaves work later. This was going through her mind as she pushed the covers away and swung her legs out. She sat on the edge of the bed massaging her face for a while. She was still shaking the nasty incident off when she became aware of something odd under her feet. She looked down and saw the root!

She began to scream.

The old woman picked up the phone, mainly to stop it ringing; she didn’t like phones.

A pleasant male voice at the other end was saying, “Good morning madam, I’m calling from Worldwide Charity. How are you today?”

“Sorry, my hearing is not so good, would you say that again?”

“I was asking how you are today.”

“Is that you, Rodney?”

“No. My name is Clive.”

“Number five? Did you say five? You have the wrong number, I live at twenty-seven.”

“No madam, I’m Clive, and I’m phoning to let you know that our charity is currently running a special lottery.”

“Oh! I’m sure I haven’t placed an order for pottery.”

“No, madam it’s a lottery. We have found that in the past these lotteries have been especially popular amongst women.”

“But they don’t, do they?”

“Sorry, don’t what?”

“Swim.”

“Who doesn’t swim?”

“Monks, I’m sure they don’t swim.”

“Oh! I see. No madam, I said amongst women. Anyway, this year‘s grand prize is a new Toyota.”

“Oh! I’m much too old for a new toy Yoda. Although my grandson may be interested. How much did you say it was?”

“Ah! I’m glad you asked me that. We have greatly reduced the price of tickets, as we are aware that many people are trying to make ends meet.”

“Hen’s meat? Do you mean chicken?”

“Madam, any contribution you care to make will support our current drive, we have programmes in place to support youth in Asia.”

“No! I’m sorry, Colin. I don’t support euthanasia!”

The phone went down with a thud.

The man with the grubby clothes and woolly beanie stood looking down at the dead man and smiled.

He considered this was a good night’s work. It was late and the streets were empty. The lowlife had it coming. He was a suspect in at least two murder cases. He’d never been charged, for a lack of evidense. He was with the dead man in the club, earlier that evening. He and his cronies were gathered in the private room at the back. He had been very drunk, bragging about how dumb the cops were and how he’d run rings around them. He had reckoned that the lack of evidence had them beat every time.

The man glanced around, the place was still deserted. He walked back to his car and climbed in. He sat thinking for a while before moving off. He drove a short distance to a public telephone and made a call. He then drove to the other side of town where he pulled to the curb, leant across and cracked opened the passenger door. He dropped the switch blade through the grid of the drain cover. He then made his way, slowly back to the scene of the crime. When he arrived, he pulled the old, battered car over. He sat for a moment watching the blue lights flashing.

He got out of the car and strolled across to the scene. Seeing a detective he knew, the undercover detective in the grubby clothes and woolly beanie asked what was going on.

Peering through a tiny pinhole into the world of pollies,

Why do we tend to laugh?

In the pragmatic world of business

These celebrities are only staff.

–

Are these people equipped and trained to deal with

Offshore accounts and religious fanatics,

Media moguls and freedom of speech,

Mourning widows, the everyday folk,

And the common good for each.

–

Paupers and princes alike are there,

With the bailing out of the banks.

The ballot boxes are never far from mind,

When the pollies are given thanks.

–

How do those with untamed egos

Really deal with the common strife?

How do they handle the seeds of revolution,

Or the makers of arms, or the loss of life?

All struggling actors playing their parts,

With so many weighty responsibilities,

All marching to beats of different drums.

How did they ever become celebrities?

–

Although the TV images linger,

They strut, they swagger, they thump and they shout.

So many are left with only a picture or two,

And a vague notion of what it’s about.

–

The Roman Senate played its part,

Changes ranging both far and near.

Are we not able to review the whole thing,

And come up with a better idea?

She had never liked the old lady next door.

Ever since, thinking that she might be interested, she’d tried to tell her about some of the advances she had made with her magic spells. She was shocked at the response. The woman had laughed and told her that she shouldn’t be so silly. She said that as a school pupil she should be concentrating on her homework and not fooling around with that kind of nonsense. Because she had been so happy with the success of her spellcasting, after finding the old book tucked away at the bottom of an old box of junk in the basement that no one ever used, she felt that she had to tell someone. It had obviously been a mistake to take the woman into her confidence, however, it did give her an idea.

Although a number of incantations she had used had given encouraging results, like moving things around without touching them, making things levitate and having spiders curl up and drop off their webs, there was a section of the book that dealt with enchantments that involved people. Some of them looked very interesting, most were fairly horrible, but she’d not had anyone in mind to practice on. Not until the ignorant old biddy next door had been so dismissive, that is.

It was for this reason that the girl found herself ringing the woman’s front door bell holding a wicker basket containing the required accoutrements. The woman opened the door with a frown.

She scowled. “What do you want?”

“I’ve come to show you how my spells really work,” cooed the girl, giving her best neighbourly smile.

“Humph!” was all the woman said at first. Then she peered down into the basket and said, “What have you got in there?”

Delighted with the request, the other began lifting items out, one at a time. “These are black candles,” she said, “and I have a book of spells, a folded plastic sheet, a stick of blue chalk, a roll of sticky tape and a large knife.”

The woman gasped when she saw the knife. She stepped back, obviously preparing to close the door. “Well, young lady, if you think you’re coming in here with all your nasty bits and pieces, you’ve got another think coming!”

At this point, putting the basket down, she took the book out again. She placed the book on the upturned palm of her hand, laid her other hand on top and began mumbling something the woman couldn’t quite hear. When she’d finished, the girl asked, “Would you like a demonstration?”

The woman seemed to brighten. With a pleasant smile, she said, “Oh! That sounds nice, dear. Do come in.”

His work took him away regularly.

They had both agreed that to get out of rented accommodation and into something they owned would only be possible if he kept doing regular shifts at the mineral mine, several hours flight time away. This particular stint had been a double period, where he was filling in for an absent worker. It would mean that this year would see his income grow that little bit more, taking them that little bit closer to getting a place of their own. He lay there snoring for ages before waking himself up with a loud snort. His eyes flickered open for the briefest moment, but long enough to see her staring at him.

“Are you OK? He said.

“Yes, I’m fine thanks.” She said.

He propped himself up on his elbow. “You sure?”

“Sure.”

“Was I snoring?”

“You were.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s OK. When you’re away for long periods, all I hear at night is the clock ticking.” She stares up at the ceiling. “It’s very quiet when you’re away; too quiet. Any noise is consoling, even your snoring.” She smiled. “Go back to sleep.”

Looking back, she saw that he already had.

She was looking for an old toy when she found the photo.

The old wardrobe that was kept in the loft seemed the best bet. She was rummaging through when she found an old shoebox, right at the back. She took it down and opened it. It was full of paperwork, a few letters and several old black and white photos. One in particular intrigued her. It was of a young teenager, about her own age, cradling a very young baby in her arms. She had no luck finding what she went there for, but pocketed the photo. She would ask her mother about it later. In fact, it was much later that evening when she thought of it. They had just finished tea when she found it was still in her pocket.

She held it out and said, “I found this today.”

Her mother took it and stared at it for a long time before looking up. “Where was it?” she asked in a whisper.

“It was in a shoebox up in the loft… who’s the baby?”

The mother said nothing for a while. She finally put the picture down and took her daughter’s hands in hers and squeezed. There were tears in her eyes as she began. “I would have told you before long, anyway,” she said with a faint smile and nodding, “it’s a picture of you, my love.”

The girl picked up the picture and said, “Me?”

“Yes, dear. It’s you, a lovely baby girl.”

The daughter frowned. “Who’s the woman? She doesn’t look like you.”

After a long pause, she sighed deeply and going for a tissue, she wiped her eyes. “That’s your mother, your real mother, my darling. She was only fifteen.”

The girl just sat, eyes wide.

“As you know, your father… I should say my husband, he died in an accident soon after we were married.” She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. “Over a year went by before this picture was taken.” She sat thinking for a while, then went on. “It was taken just moments before you were placed in my arms. At that very moment you became mine.” At this point, she burst into tears. After a bit, she mumbled, “Mine to love and to hold.”

Her daughter hugged her tight; really tight!

He didn’t like to think of himself as old, but he really didn’t like shopping.

He did have a bit of a limp, which he tried to hide, that’s when he remembered to do it. They had been in the shopping centre for over an hour, going from shop to shop together. He often considered his wife’s doggedness to keep going without tiring or any sign of losing interest in the activity quite amazing. He figured it was a woman thing. He on the other hand would contrive to find a reason to remain at home when these expeditions came up. However, he really did need to get a new pair of shorts, and it really was up to him to try them on in the shop. He supposed this made sense.

They stopped outside a supermarket. She waved towards the entrance. “You’ll find what you want in there,” she said, with an air of confidence.

“I will?”

“Of course, dear, they sell lots of clothes, including shorts.”

He looked into the horrible vastness of the place. “OK,” he mumbled.

She smiled with just a hint of condescension. “Now, take your time. I won’t be back around to this part of the centre for at least half-an-hour… so you can try on as many as you like.”

He turned and made his way to the security entrance.

“Good luck,” she called.

He looked back and managed a small wave.

Inside the great cavern of a room, notices hung from the ceiling for as far as the eye could see. He couldn’t find one saying ‘Shorts’ anywhere. He wandered aimlessly for a while, actually finding it fascinating that the range and variety of products was so, well… so varied!

“Can I help you,” came a voice out of nowhere.

Startled, he looked around. A uniformed girl was emerging from between isles. He cleared his throat quietly and said, “Yes. I’m looking for men’s shorts.”

She walked out into the main gangway and pointed. “That’s my full men’s area there for you,” she said.

He nodded and moved off quickly. The exchange had left him feeling uneasy, he softly repeated her words back to himself. “That’s my full men’s area there for you,” he whispered.

He kept going until he was far enough away to be able to pause for a while, pretending to be interested in socks. Of course, the incident had taken him by surprise, but it was what she had said. It seemed so… intimate, yet somehow submissive. There was something strange in the way she said it. Certainly, for such a young thing to state that the area was hers was a bit of a stretch. He felt decidedly uncomfortable.

He spent a good thirty minutes walking around clothes hung on racks, without touching any of them. He managed to avoid crossing paths with the girl again, and finally made his way out to find his wife waiting.

He knew she’d be disappointed to see him coming out empty-handed, but as usual her frown turned to a smile. She came forward. “Did you find anything, dear?”

“No.” He looked back at the shop. “I… I was discombobulated.”

“I do wish you wouldn’t talk like that. What happened?”

“There was this girl…”

“Yes? What girl?”

“You know, a shop assistant.”

“Yes, OK dear. What about her?”

“I found her phraseology disturbing.”

She sighed. “There are times when I really don’t understand you. Did you try anything on?”

He shook his head.

At this, she gently put her arm through his and gave a little squeeze, in a manner that confirmed their years of affection for one another, and slowly they made their way out.

He knew that often in the past she had not understood him. He reflected on the fact that discombobulation can come in so many forms. It can come out of the blue, anytime, anywhere… and does.