Author: Alexander Fawn

The farmer was sick of trespassers stealing his crop.

He would occasionally find a clearing in his field with the ashes of a fire. It happened again today. His potatoes were being dug up, roasted and probably eaten right there on his land. He decided that it had to be happening overnight. That night he stayed up, watching from an upper window. Around midnight he saw the faint glow. He made his way to the field and found the fire burning with someone roasting a potato on the end of a stick. Moving closer and crouching behind bushes he could see the perpetrator. He was surprised to find that it was a young lad, no older than twelve. He looked scruffy and dirty. He was obviously a homeless urchin. There were three potatoes on the ground next to where the boy sat, cross-legged. They looked cooked and the boy was preparing the forth.

The farmer hesitated. He continued to look on while the boy remove the last potato from his stick and drop it to the ground. He picked up one that was already cooked and began eating it greedily. With a degree of reluctance, the farmer was about to make his presence known when a stray dog approached slowly sniffing the air. It was extremely thin and looked in worse condition than the boy. The small fire was beginning to burn down. The dog moved forward and the boy picked up a potato and held it out. It was obvious that the boy didn’t know the dog; the farmer could hear him asking the dog if he had a name. The dog sidled up to the boy and took what it was offered between his teeth and backed off slightly to eat. The boy looked down at the remaining two potatoes and picked one up. No sooner had he began eating, the dog was back making soft whining noises.

The farmer stayed silently looking on with interest as the boy looked down at the last potato, then, after a brief pause, held it out for the dog.

The farmer went home to bed.

They met in the cafeteria at the top of the department store.

It had become a regular thing since the son had left home a year ago to move into a shared house with friends. He worked in town and would catch up with his father when the old man came into town, about once a month. It had been their habit to catch up this way for lunch. The younger man always had reservations about their meetings on account of his father’s continual harping on about how he should seriously consider finding a nice girl to marry and settle down with. He often wondered whether this prying and prodding was because of him being left on his own since his wife died. Perhaps he had nothing better to do. They hadn’t been sitting long when it started.

The father said, “So, how are you doing, now? Met anyone special?”

The other suppressed a sigh and said, “Well, I met this guy recently who’s promised to look at the problem I’ve been having with my laptop.”

The father winced. “No. I meant someone nice… you know.”

“He is nice.”

“Come on, you know what I mean. A nice girl is what I meant.”

The son felt it all starting up again, but thought before he spoke. He knew his father meant well. He was getting on, of course. His concern about his personal love life was probably reasonable, although he found it annoying. “I’ve had a couple of dates; nothing serious,” he said, hoping that would satisfy him.

“I just think that being in your mid-twenties, you should, you know, look to your future.”

“OK, dad.” He picked up the menu. “I’ll give it some thought.”

“You should. What about that nice girl from the library.”

“Dad! I told you, she’s engaged… I did tell you.”

“Oh! Right. Yes, I believe you did.”

“I did, yes.”

“Nothing on the horizon then?”

The son felt a swell of impatience and anger building, then he gave a heavy sigh. “OK. I guess I should tell you. There is this woman…”

The father brightened. “Really! Go on.”

“She’s well over sixty.”

“Over sixty?”

“Yes, and she’s pretty desperate for a man.”

“Desperate?”

“Yep. I gave her your number. Look, I’m hungry, can we order?”

There was one boy at her school that she had never liked.

He was forever playing practical jokes. She didn’t think that any of his pranks were funny, in fact, the opposite. In her opinion, all his tricks were stupid, with some of them being quite dangerous, like a book being balanced on top of a door so that it falls when someone walks through. He would hide lunch boxes, put plastic spiders under books on school desks, lock all of the toilet doors from the inside then climb out, leaving them all showing they were engaged. At least he got into trouble for that one. Generally, she would just keep away from him. That worked until the day she walked straight into one of his pranks.

There was a small circle of kids in the playground, all standing around laughing, with him in the middle telling them something. As she approached, others were gathering around to see what was going on. When she got closer, a couple of her classmates let her through. The boy was pointing at the flower he wore, asking her if she thought it was pretty. As she moved forward to look at it, a jet of water hit her in the face. Naturally, there was a great burst of laughter, with her left wiping her face and feeling a rage she had never felt before. The teasing that followed meant that it took a long time before the anger that was burning inside her began to fade. It was an incident that would stay with her forever.

It was a couple of years after leaving school that she heard what had happened to him. Although the news was really sad, she found it hard to supress the feeling that some sort of justice had been served. It had been an accident at his home. The story she heard was that he was playing a practical joke on his parents late one night when it happened. He was prowling around, covered by a white sheet, making ghostly noises on the upper landing of their home. When his father got up to investigate, they had collided and the prankster had tumbled down the stairs.

When the invitations were sent out, indicating that it would be an open casket funeral, she called in at the town’s joke shop and purchased a squirt flower. On the day, she pinned it to her blouse, under her jacket.

As she took her turn to walk passed the coffin, she leant forward and whispered, “Goodbye.”

Only she knew that she could have.

Only she knew that she didn’t.

 

Machines that function day and night

Rely on pieces out of sight.

–

Axles turning, most unseen,

Pins and spacers in between.

–

Cogs and gears keeping pace,

Matching wheels in tight embrace.

–

Pinioned arms that rise and fall.

Cranks and pivots, moving all.

–

Working parts in constant play,

With squirts of oil along the way.

–

Cranks and chains and lights that blink.

Moving parts that interlink.

–

Various items stop and start,

Each playing its appointed part.

–

So many kinds may be found,

Both with and without sound.

–

A cylinder here, a sprocket there,

Clips and couplings everywhere.

–

Belts and bearings, seals and springs.

Shafts and pulleys and cabled things.

–

Clutches, drives, cams and keys.

Splines and brakes, yes, all of these.

–

Machines that function night and day,

Such clever workings, you might say.

He sat looking at the clock, becoming more annoyed by the minute; she was late.

Her weekly visits usually happened a lot earlier in the evening. This had always worked out well with his favourite late night program. It started at eleven. The television was on, but muted. Another eight minutes and it would start. Surely, she was aware of how inconvenient this was! Mind you, he thought, when the personal video recorder packed up six months ago he didn’t replace it or try to have it fixed. If that was still around he could have recorded his show. There again, under normal circumstances he didn’t need one. These definitely weren’t normal circumstances. Where the hell was she? He checked the time again; two minutes to go. If only he still had that recorder. He began to ruminate on the machine and what it did. It was used to capture things. Things that you found precious…

He became teary. Slowly, his anger dissipated. After all, when it came right down to it, it was a question of values wasn’t it? What was more important, seeing his regular show or enjoying her regular visits, despite them being very short? Mentally, he chided himself for being so selfish.

He was thinking about this when a shimmering began to appear in the armchair next to his. Moments later she was there, looking as lovely as ever, despite her years. She turned to him, looking terribly worried.

“I’m so sorry!” she said, placing her hand over her mouth.

At first, he said nothing. He didn’t know what to say.

She went on. “Sorry, dear. I had trouble crossing over from the other side. I don’t know why.”

He just sat looking at her for a while, before giving her a loving smile as the shimmering returned.

“Don’t give it a second thought. You know how much I love you. Please feel free to visit anytime you like,” he said.

Tomorrow, I’ll go out and buy a new recorder, he thought.

 

He just wanted to leave and make a life for himself.

He was their only child and he loved his parents, but this was something he had to do. In a way, he’d been thinking about it for a number of months and certainly planning it for a couple of weeks. The message he left was brief, but he wanted them to understand, and for that reason he was careful with what he wrote. It was a simple note and read: ‘I love you both. But I need to make a life for myself. Please don’t look for me. You don’t have to worry. I’ll be OK.’ He stuck it in a prominent position on the wall above the chest of drawers where his collection of sports trophies were displayed.

 

 His leaving had left them in a state of bewilderment.

Almost twenty years had passed before his old room was being updated and the furniture was moved around. They found the note where it had dropped down behind the chest of drawers where his collection of sports trophies used to be displayed. It was a small piece of paper with a few fading lines on one side and a little pink blob on the other.

There is a case for wondering whether finding it at the time he left would have actually made any difference one way or the other.

Anyway, in practical terms, the only thing of value to come out of the finding of it was the certain knowledge that Pink-tac really wasn’t as good as Blu Tack.

He was hungry and he was close to a place he knew.

He saw what was on offer and thought about it for a bit. He looked around. The place was quiet.

He said, “I’d like to order a la carte, if that’s OK?”

The other smiled. “Not a problem, sir.”

“I’d like to start with the lasagne and some finely cut chips with a small salad of just lettuce and tomato.”

“Of course, sir.”

“To follow, the sticky date pudding topped with whipped cream.”

“Yes, we can do that.”

“Can I get a glass of chilled Sauvignon Blanc to follow?”

“Yes, sir. Will that be all?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

The man took the note and held out the frankfurter in a role.

With a smile and a wink, he said, “Tomato sauce over there.”

His eye operation had gone really well; the doctors were pleased.

He had been in for laser eye surgery. It would correct his astigmatism, which had resulted in him having blurred vision. It was time to be discharged from hospital and his wife would be picking him up. She arrived early, parked and walked in. She found him with his bag of night clothes and toiletries. He stood and they hugged. She stepped back and examined his eyes. She nodded slowly and squeezed his arm.

“How are you feeling, my love?”

He blinked his eyes hard a couple of times, and said, “Looking forward to getting home.”

She smiled. “Of course you are, we’ll get home and put the kettle on. How does that suit you?”

“Sounds like a grand idea.” He smiled. “Lead the way.”

“OK. The car’s in the car park; not far.”

They walked to the car, weaving through a couple of rows of vehicles. She was unlocking the car while he stood staring off into the distance. She followed his gaze. Across several rows she could see a woman, similarly waiting for a car door to be opened. She was blond, smartly dressed and wearing particularly nice makeup.

She said, “Eyes better now dear?”

He had never liked going to the dentist.

Over the years he’d tried a number of them. Some better than others, but not one of them were what he’d call nice. He guessed that was just the nature of the profession. The last one he’d been to, told him he needed to have root canal treatment. That dentist had given him a detailed description of the procedure, saying this would involve him drilling a hole down through his tooth so he could remove infected pulp that is made up of connective tissue, nerves and blood supply. He said this extends into the root of the tooth, where the root canal can be cleaned and shaped so that it could be filled and sealed. He felt the description was a bit too detailed. He made up his mind on the spot that he wouldn’t be going back!

That was nearly a year ago and his toothache had got a lot worse. He knew he had to get it fixed. Talking to people, he was told that there was a fairly new dentist in town who was very good. Apparently, he had the reputation of being a no-frills person who didn’t mess around with small talk. They said he didn’t spend time yakking about it, just got on and did the job.

On the day of his appointment he was ushered straight into the chair. He looked on as the dentist prepared instruments on a tray. Apart from saying ‘good morning’ as he entered, he was silent. Finally, he wheeled his trolley next to him and looked down.

He spoke. “I’m just letting you know, this is going to hurt.”

As he started the drill, he said, “A lot!”

She had been so happy with all her friends, despite the fact that none of them were real.

She had been told by everyone that they don’t actually exist. The doctor, the man her parents insisted she visit every week, just didn’t realise how important they were. One by one he had been making them go away. She missed them all terribly. He would sit her down and tell her to make herself comfortable; that was the nice part. He let her have a little sleep. The problem was, every time she visited him she would come away realising that one of her friends was no longer there. Naturally, she discussed what was happening to her at length with those that were left.

He smiled at her now, across his big desk. “Well then, how are you doing young lady?”

“I miss my friends,” she said, with a sad face.

He nodded. “Yes, no doubt you do, but we’ve talked about how they aren’t real and how you will be much better off without them.”

She pouted. “I know, you keep telling me that. My mummy and daddy do too. But my friends were good company. I love talking to them, but you have been making them go away! I only have one friend left.”

He smiled at her again. “It is for the best you know. Besides, I’m you friend now, aren’t I?”

The girl played with her fingers for a moment, then said, “Can I tell you something.”

His eyebrows went up. “Of course. Of course you can.”

“It‘s a secret.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

She stood and put a finger to her lips as she approached. She made the move so stealthily that he hardly noticed the knife.

“Thank goodness I still have one friend,” she said, and giggled.