Author: Alexander Fawn

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.

It has no name, no real name,

Only an assigned designation.

It is a virus that causes respiratory infections,

And it spreads from nation to nation.

–

It is known as an infective agent,

A nucleic acid molecule,

Wrapped in a protein coat.

It brings a great litany of symptoms,

That go far beyond a sore throat.

–

There is fever, a cough and tiredness,

A loss of taste or smell,

A discolouration of fingers or toes,

With diarrhoea and skin rash as well.

–

There are aches and pains and headaches,

Chest pains and difficulty breathing,

And an irritation of the eyes.

Then there’s a loss of speech or mobility,

Confusion, being no surprise.

–

It multiplies when invading a cell.

Known only as some bug by most.

But it manages to copy itself,

In the living cells of a host.

–

This writer prefers it remain nameless,

As too often our species must hear,

That which has brought such suffering,

Year after terrible year.

–

In this nineteenth year of the century,

We know only too well the evil it brings.

Is it too easy to say, that this too shall pass?

As it will…with all other things.

As a kid, he just hated fairies.

This may not readily explain why inquisitive neighbours may have heard violent noises coming from the old man’s shed in the early hours, but for him, this activity needed little in the way of explanation. As for the fairies, well, he was fully aware of the fact that most people regard them as quaint little supernatural creatures that possess magical powers and flit around doing all sorts of really nice things. It was as a result of this fact that he made it a lifelong pledge to never reveal his nightmares. In these nightly episodes he would see them crawling out from under the bed as soon as he fell asleep. Scary little buggers with their wands, smug expressions and their creepy hairdos! They would sneak up under the sheets, no matter how much he tried to tuck them in all round, and poke at him savagely with their magic sticks until he woke shaking and sobbing.

These terrifying dreams were visited upon him regularly throughout his childhood years and although this was several decades ago now, he often had the uncomfortable thought that they could one day return. It was the recent significant incident that served as a reminder of this horrifying possibility.

Now, with his wife’s passing, and living alone in a much smaller and more manageable house, his ongoing preoccupation had been to carry out his plan to create a small flower garden in the limited area between the back door and the back fence. When it was finished, several members at the local pensioner’s club, who had shown an interest in his project, had called in to see what he had done. It was both unexpected and disturbing when, a no doubt well-meaning lady visited, bringing with her a gift for his garden. When unwrapped, it was a rather large garden fairy!

Over several hours he allowed himself a self-congratulatory pat on the back for holding his emotions in check. This admirable restraint was let go in the early hours that followed the woman’s visit. In the shed, with the door closed, it all went away the moment the mallet came down on the figurine, and even further away with each subsequent blow.

He still hated fairies.