Author: Alexander Fawn

From her point of view, life had become a dreadful mess.

Today she had skipped work, giving herself a day away from it all. A day by the sea was a way of clearing her mind, a way of summing it all up. The people she worked with were truly dreadful. Not one of them was worth knowing. They were just a bunch of lowlifes. She hated the place and would love to quit, but the employment opportunities were equally dreadful. As she slowly bobbed up and down on the gentle waves she thought about the stupid girl she shared a flat with; she was dreadful. As for boyfriends, she had been dating one waste of time after another. Not one of them you could call nice, in fact, they had all been dreadful.

She had been floating there for quite a while, looking up into a blue sky and thinking about how dreadful it all was, when something drifted passed, glinting in the sun. It was some sort of pot. She paddled towards it and got hold of it. It was a small clear plastic container, the sort of thing you get with a small amount of gravy in it when getting fast food. She was annoyed to think that someone would pollute the sea with it. She felt that some people’s lack of caring for the planet was dreadful. When she held it up looking for a brand name, she saw that it contained a tiny piece of folded paper. She was instantly aware of a thrill that rippled through her. This could be it! This could be a sign. She couldn’t let the note get wet, that would be dreadful. She couldn’t wait to swim back to the shore.

Once she was back to where she had piled her clothes, she dried off quickly and sat down with her find. She carefully snapped the lid off and removed the note. She opened it up and read, ‘I know the sea will bring us together, my love.’ This was followed by a mobile phone number.

She grabbed her phone and tapped in the number. A voice came on, ‘That number has been disconnected.’

The language she used, as she dropped and stamped on her phone, was indeed dreadful.

His slippers just weren’t doing the job anymore, his feet were so cold.

This pair had worn so thin. He looked down at the state of them. The uppers were no more than paper now. He would have to buy new. He would take a trip to the shops tomorrow. He’d look for really fluffy ones, the sort that women wear. It didn’t matter, did it? He lived on his own now, he could wear what he liked, nobody would know!

A new thought struck him. The idea appealed. He smiled to himself and the notion that he could do it. This would be something else that nobody would know about. They would not need to know. He fossicked around in the cupboard until he found it. He shook the can, there was not much in it, but it would do.

It was getting dark now, but he would go out before the cold set in. He was sure his neighbours wouldn’t notice what he was doing. He went out into his tiny back garden and placed an upturned bucket in front of his chair. This would elevate his legs.

He squirted the lighter fuel and struck a match. The old footwear puffed into flame. He went back to the chair and put his feet up. He felt the heat on the soles of his feet at first. Then it slowly spread to his toes. He grinned. He couldn’t remember when his feet had felt this good.

His slippers had never before made his feet this warm.

He had bought the painting in an antique store on a whim.

He just liked it. It was a small, vintage oil painting in an oval frame. The subject was a head and shoulder portrait of an elderly gentleman with a warm smile. He knew that it was the old man’s face that had made him buy it. He found himself drawn in by it whenever he looked at it. He hung it on a wall in the cottage were he would regularly walk past it. It hung there for several days before he noticed the change. The old man now had a slight squint in his eyes, it was extremely subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was definitely there.

Then, the next thing he saw, a couple of days later, was the raised chin. It was only slight, but the head had tilted back, just a little. Because of these minute changes, he stopped and peered at it several times a day. It bothered him at first. Then he told himself that whether he was imagining it or not, he should be grateful that he had something so unusual. The next facial shift was a touch troubling. The mouth had moved, altering the expression. To be precise, the corner was up, just enough to have the old man look as though he was trying to make up his mind about something.

When his neighbour called in for a cup of tea and a chat, he told him about it. He described all of the changes that had occurred. He was hoping that some alteration would take place during his visit. For this reason, he had taken his guest back to look at it several times while he was there. Unfortunately, nothing happened. By the time his friend left, he had the uncomfortable feeling that he hadn’t believed him. He waved him off and went back in, going straight to the painting. He really wasn’t expecting what he saw.

The old man’s hair was mussed, his eyes were bloodshot and wide open and he was poking his tongue out!

When they first met they really liked each other.

It was amazing that they had so much in common. They enjoyed the same kind of music, movies, TV shows, singers, and even food! They spent as much time together as they could.

Then, things began to change.

It seemed to be the case that she was always right, so, of course, that made him wrong.

What she wanted was always so important. His needs were looked upon as irrelevant. She would insist on what they would do together.

After a while, he realised just how tired of the situation he was.

Over time he began to prefer the company of others and so did she.

They hardly ever speak now.

I guess that’s just the way it is with eight-year-olds.

It was a chance meeting.

It was a hot afternoon in the city when the men bumped into each other. They were browsing in an electrical store when it happened. Recognition was slow at first. The first man had been watching the other for several minutes before approaching. The upshot was, after smiles and a handshake, it was decided that they both had time on their hands and could easily sit and chat in a nearby café. This is how it happened that two schoolboys from one country, were absolutely delighted to meet again more than fifty years later in another; and this was how they came to be reminiscing in a coffee house that they both knew.

The first man had moved to the new country some four decades earlier, while the other had done the same thing a dozen years back. In many respects their working lives, marriages and families were remarkably similar. It was soon established that the relatively new immigrant had most recently been a full-time Sales Manager for a medium sized car yard, while the other had spent a number of years as a contract Technical Writer for the mining and resources sector before retiring. Now, having both left the workforce, in the main their time was their own. After spending a couple of hours chatting, catching up and comparing their lives, it became evident that there was a major difference regarding their current retirement lifestyles. The first man had a hobby, while the other didn’t.

He said, “I tell you, you really need to have a hobby.”

The second man said, “You say you post your short stories and poems, tell me how you do that?”

The first man said, “I have set up a simple blog site on the internet where I post items weekly.”

Second man: “Is that a difficult thing to do?”

First: “It was initially. The actual business of creating it was hard going, for me at least. But, I had help from a blog building company online.”

Second: “So, some of your time must be taken up by the organising and posting of your work, as well as any other administration of the site itself.”

First: “Yes, you’re right, but remember, my hobby is writing, that comes first. I’ve developed a system of comprehensive folders to manage that, along with a detailed schedule of upcoming items that enables me to spend as short a time as possible carrying out the business of posting new material.”

Second: “Well, it sounds as though you have that in hand.”

First: “Pretty well, I think.” At this point he handed the other a card. “Have a look some time, the web address is on there.”

Second: “Thanks. I will. As I said earlier, I do have a small open motor boat, with an outboard motor. However, I wouldn’t call it a hobby. There’s the business of getting the cover off, hooking it up to the car, taking it to the boat ramp and getting it into the water. To be honest, I do it for the family; sometimes friends. No, I wouldn’t call it a hobby.”

First: “Doesn’t sound like one. After all a hobby is an activity or interest pursued for pleasure or relaxation.”

Second: “That sounds like a dictionary definition.”

First: “It is!”

A short time after this they began to leave, having exchanged their contact information and having agreed to catch up again. As they went out to make their way to their respective carparks in opposite directions, the first man smiled and said, “Get a hobby.”

The people in the street were convinced that the woman at number nine was odd.

Not odd in a bad way particularly, just strange in her ways. She was generally regarded as a weirdo. It may have all started a couple of years back when her husband died or maybe that’s when neighbours began whispering about her weird habits. She seemed to be forever throwing things out. Sometimes she’d put bits of furniture out on her front verge, items that often looked quite reasonable. She would sometimes do this when there wasn’t a bulk collection scheduled, and if none of it moved she would stake a notice in front of it, saying ‘Free’. Every bin night, hers was crammed full, the lid bulging open with clothes, mainly men’s. The rumour was that she was selling a lot of stuff off through internet sites.

People started to wonder how she could live in there, with a house that must be all but empty. The only time anybody had tried to enquire about her wellbeing was when the woman at number sixteen took it upon herself to call in and see if everything was all right. She was thanked for asking but didn’t get passed the front door.

When news of this got around, the general feeling in the street was that she’d gone a bit loopy. She wasn’t that old, but it was reckoned that dementia was setting in and some relative that none of them knew about would turn up one day and arrange for her to go into a care home. In fact, this looked as though that might be the case when the ‘For Sale’ sign went up.

Nobody actually saw her leave. It was suggested that it happened during the night.

It was the woman at number sixteen who received the postcard.

It was franked, Palm Beach, Florida.

The IT guy considered that his job was almost perfect.

Almost, because he had to report to a boss that was in all respects a disgusting human being! Although he realised that many members of the general workforce could very well feel the same way, the guy he had to report to was an exception. The man was extremely overweight, was married to a woman who came from a very wealthy family, and it was suspected that she had applied some influence to put him in the position he enjoyed. Beyond this, he knew nothing about the workings of an IT department and was forever sending out the most unintelligible emails. It was generally understood by those in the department that it was best to simply ignore his directives because he would have no idea how to follow up on his instructions.

For some reason, the fact that this incompetent manager bothered him more than most, made him seriously consider moving on from what really was a great job. The nature of the work itself held him, but he felt it couldn’t last.

This was true right up to the day the bus he was on got caught up in a traffic jam, owing to a major accident up ahead. He was on his way home at the time after stopping off to eat near the office, meaning that he didn’t have to cook when he got home. He only did this occasionally. He lived some distance away from his work and was nearly home when he glanced down at the restaurant. It was a pretty swanky place and he’d heard that the prices went through the roof. Being quite dark at the time, people were clearly lit up sitting at tables. That’s when he saw him; the slob! He was sitting opposite a young woman chatting happily. They were half way through an expensive looking meal and sipping wine. He was looking all gooey-eyed and stroking the back of her hand.

The IT man quickly grabbed his upmarket phone. It was one that could take exceptionally good video clips, despite the two intervening windows. When he got home he reviewed the footage. There had been several shots, but he sat looking at the best of them. He was looking at thirty-two seconds of pure dynamite! Of course, he knew exactly how to upload the clip to the internet, while masking his address, along with any other method of being identified. In less than an hour it was done.

As for quitting, he’d give it a couple of weeks.

The old grey eyes look down into an untended garden.

The window, covered with a decade of grime, gives no proper view of what lays beyond. Her memories are coming hard and fast again. Her wizened fingers twitch unnoticed on her pen. She could see his face now, clearly. Ruddy and beaming when they first met. Watery eyes filled with sadness in bad times. His smile, when giving vows in the church. His frown, when told that they could have no children. She focused for a while on the eyebrow that always sat a little higher, and the spot on his chin that looked like a pimple, but wasn’t.

She scribbled away for a minute or two. No marks were made on her fading writing pad. Her ball-point, dried up ages ago. Purblindness had been with her for years now.

She gave a wheezy sigh when remembering the end. It was peaceful. The vicar was very understanding.

More unseen marks were made.

There was so much to record. So many memories. The echoes of all those past times that swam inside her head. They should not be lost. She was determined to capture as much as possible before being moved to a place where her memories were sure to fade.

A final scratching and a slow leaning back in her chair, indicating that she would let it go for now. Her daily ritual completed. Happy with what she had done. The pen dropped. The eyes closed.

More tomorrow.

His best mate was always telling him to go vegetarian.

They were both single, both living in rentals in the city and often met for lunch. Mostly vegetarian places, naturally. Eventually, mainly to shut him up, he said he’d give it a go. Although to some degree he did wonder what it would be like. His mate explained what he could and couldn’t eat. There would be all manner of fruit and vegetables, of course. There was rice, beans, nuts; the list went on. He was delighted with the idea that potatoes were a goer. He was told about all the other things he could eat, but he kept thinking about potatoes. He had always liked chips… really, really liked chips.

Then, as they talked some more he discovered that bread was OK. He was told that bread was a grain-based food and many other ingredients found in bread were also plant-based, this instantly expanded the variety of food he could prepare. Then came the information that most margarines contain absolutely no animal products. As if this wasn’t enough, it dawned on him without his mate telling him, that tomato sauce was all right too. His friend agreed, saying that because regular ketchup is sweetened with high fructose corn syrup, it’s hunky dory. He thanked his friend, saying that he was willing to give it a go.

At the end of the working day he called at the shops on his way to his flat and bought several very large bags of potatoes. When he got in, he opened the food cupboard and stood staring at it for several minutes before pulling everything out. It was all spread across the counter top. Anything that was not vegetarian would go. If it had been opened it went straight into the bin. Unopened items would be donated to the local food bank. Among the food stuff remaining, he had vegetarian oil for cooking, tomato sauce and salt.

He made a list.

He could have fried chips, with or without tomato ketchup or salt. He could have bread and margarine as a side dish. He could fold chips into slices of bread to make chip butties, with or without sauce, usually with.

How long could it last? He didn’t know but he’d give it a damn good try!

Beauty waiting to be found,

While sound and fragrance play their part.

Jagged mountains and rolling hills,

Merely looking stirs the heart.

–

A morning sky, a flight of geese,

A wooden lattice dressed with flowers,

The purest white of downy clouds,

Shadows creeping through the hours.

–

The frozen surface of a lake,

Shadows floating in a fog,

Branches waving in a breeze,

A crop of moss upon a log.

–

The bands of colour in a rock,

Melting snowflakes, a setting sun,

A spread of countless sparkling stars,

A dancing flame sure plays its part.

Ivy climbing up a wall,

Water dripping, one by one,

A dark horizon’s silhouettes,

Web beads glistening in the sun.

–

Sands patterned by relentless wind,

Leaves slowly flutter with a breeze,

Berries hiding in a bush,

Leafless branches on winter trees.

–

Seashells washed up on a beach,

Lightening racing straight to ground.

Albeit of a visual kind,

It’s beauty, just waiting to be found.