Author: Alexander Fawn

He sat on the old sawn-off tree trunk in the back corner of the garden.

He sat upright with pride, eyes shining bright, tail dangling to the grass. He shook his great head, fluffing up his main, and with his head thrown back, he roared. The boy’s bellow brought his mother out into the garden. He was scolded, as he had been so often, for embarrassing her and their neighbours. This time, with him being seriously threatened with a number of privileges coming to an abrupt end, his mother’s angry words had put a stop to it. However, this incident, carrying with it such power in the young boy’s mind, stayed with him through the long decades that followed.

Now, after a life that had a marriage, children, and a working life followed by several lonely years of retirement, he walked again through his family’s decaying garden. The property had never been sold. Despite his aging body, and with obvious discomfort, together with no thought of what his late parents would think or any considerations from now unknown neighbours, he clambered up onto the old tree stump. And regardless of the old man’s passion overcoming any sense of reason, and with any physical distress being surpassed by the exhilaration of the moment, he straightened his back.

His eyes burnt, his tail flicked, and with his great raised head… he roared.

He figured he knew that there was so much more to scrying than most people knew about.

He believed that after so many hours of practice, he had found its full potential. He was convinced that it went far beyond the standard definition of it being just the use of a crystal ball or other reflective object or surface to detect significant messages or visions. His preferred medium was a mirror. He would often sit in front of it in the evenings. His particular method of scrying had given him hours of pleasure. He would sit for a time, staring into the mirror. On occasions, this could be quite a while before it started, sometimes it would be quick. Either way, he had to concentrate hard so that he didn’t miss the beginning of it. It would start off with something really subtle, like a flicker of his eyebrow or the twitch of his eyelid. From that point on it would escalate.

He could flare his nostrils and at the same time, his image in the mirror would do the same. It would be exactly the same and at precisely the same moment. He could raise both eyebrows, lift the corner of his mouth, open his eyes really wide, bare his teeth, twitch his nose, poke his tongue out, go cross-eyed, bite his lip, frown, wink, smile; it was endless, it could go on for hours and it often did.

This was the case until the night it was all brought to an abrupt end. Looking into the mirror, he was doing one of his extra big pouting faces when there was a sudden power cut. Everything went black.

He sat back with a heavy sigh.

In the darkness, this was followed by a second sigh.

He didn’t like it…

Her heart leapt when her son asked the question.

He was obviously moving into the age of spiritual awakening. There were never any signs before. Not until now. Not until this morning. He had come into the room yawning. It was a school day, so she had to make sure he was ready when the time came for them to leave. She knew that his question could easily lead to a very lengthy and highly significant conversation. It would make him late for school, to say the very least. Besides, she needed time to think about it all. She would discuss it with him when he came home. Meanwhile, she would make absolutely sure that she heard him right.

“Sorry dear, what did you say?”

“I said, did you hear the messages last night?”

She took a chance with a gentle probe. “What, on the phone you mean?”

“No, mum. The tapping, like some sort of message in Morse code.”

She smiled. “I may have done. I’m rather busy this morning honey, can we talk about it when you get home from school?”

He shrugged. “Sure.”

During the day she wondered who it was, trying to get in touch, from beyond. The most obvious candidate would be her late husband. They had spent a lifetime enjoying their common interest in the hereafter, often attending séances and spiritual meetings. She tried to understand why he would make contact with his son, rather than her. Regardless, it was a miracle that it was happening. When he got home she would sit with him and explain the phenomena of the spiritual world. The excitement and the anticipation of it built during the day. Yet again, she wondered, could it be that her late husband was trying to communicate? He said he would try.

Others, who live in a different world, may well wonder how long it will be before she realises that Blue Tits quite like pecking at paintwork.

 

It started around Christmas time, although she didn’t know it.

She and her partner were visiting her family. They announced their intention to marry in the New Year. Her parents were delighted and they all talked about their futures during dinner. For some reason, the subject came up about how many children they planned to have. The numbers kept going up and humour inevitably crept into their conversation. At one point she was eating and laughing at the same time, bringing on a choking fit. It didn’t last long and it was thought that something had gone down the wrong way. It was several days before the coughing fits returned. From that time on, they got worse. The condition continued with far more regular fits of painful coughing.

Over a number of months she was bounced around. The first concern was emphysema, followed by the frightening prospect of it being cancer of the lung. It was a traumatic time for the couple, with their hopes of growing a family and living to a ripe old age together, slowly fading.

Finally, with the wonders of modern science, the truth became known. A small fuzzy patch on her lung was discovered when x-rays were taken. An exploratory operation discovered the reason for the problem. Incredibly, a pea plant was found sprouting inside her lung!

The surgeon explained, “This sort of thing has happened before, it is a known condition,” he said, with a reassuring smile. “There have been a number of recorded cases, believe it or not. In your case, the pea that went down the wrong way as you quite correctly put it, was able to sprout. The warm, moist conditions inside your lung were ideal for the pea plant to grow.”

For the couple, it was wonderful news and so good to know. After all, it was all about what is and what isn’t known.

Only God knew that it was the only thing that would ever grow inside her…

He had been institutionalised for his own good.

That’s what the press said and that’s what the memo from the Ministry of Defence said. For the press it was a great story about a mad scientist, but for the government department, and the government itself, it was something far greater. The man was a government scientist and had made several amazing discoveries. It was when the director of the country’s main research facility found out what he was working on that things took on a serious turn. It was apparent that the professor had taken his research to an advanced stage and could be very close to developing an airborne virus capable of being delivered in the form of a hypnotic vapour. It would be a world shattering breakthrough. Nothing like it had ever been produced before. Its effect would be to subdue any recipient into a zombie-like state, making them completely compliant.

His plans for the design of a capsule that could be fitted to the warhead of a ballistic missile were well advanced. Quite naturally, the government was quick to see the potential of such a thing, as a weapon, and decided that in order to keep the research irrevocably secure, the scientist should be strictly confined. He should be able to carry on with his research, but without any unauthorised contact with the outside world. It was with this in mind that in the early hours of the morning he was transferred from the facility and placed in the largest cell in the country’s most secure prison. He would be monitored twenty four hours a day and provided with all of his original notes and apparatus that had been transferred from the research facility. This interruption to his ongoing research had been annoying, but beyond that he was happy to go along with the imposed security arrangements.

The specially appointed guards that were running full video and audio surveillance, were required to report hourly directly to the Minister of Defence. Tapes of any communications were part of such reports. On the understanding that the scientist could have anything he wanted to further his work, those monitoring him throughout the day were on a constant standby, waiting for any requests he might make. So far, the professor’s mumblings, which were fairly constant, consisted of comments that would be listened to and interpreted by a panel of military experts. These comprised of statements concerning the globalisation of servitude, taking control of the new world order, of promoting the self-indoctrination of compliance, the blocking of DNA identification, removing restrictions on the engineering of chromosomes, and the bringing about of a brave new world…

None of this seemed at all relevant to those digitally capturing such musings for the reports they were passing on. In fact, their working hours were long and arduous and held little of interest. That was the case up until the point when the professor crossed the cell and stood looking up at the main camera. After a few seconds, he spoke in a clear and purposeful manner.

He said, “I have a question.”

There was an immediate stir in the observation room, with the team leader giving instructions to one of them. “Get the governor down here; quick as you can.”

He then took up the mike. “We understand. One moment please.”

The professor ran his fingers through his hair and waited.

The prison governor arrived in short order. He picked up the mike. “This is the governor, what is your request?”

“What time’s dinner?”

 

She spent as much time studying as was possible.

Her work in the supermarket paid for the rent and food for the week. She worked four shifts a week. She actually liked working on the checkout. She made sure that boredom didn’t set in by slotting her customers into categories. Much of it was based purely on guess work, but that was OK. They were assessed by how big their shop was, their age bracket, the nature of products being purchased, how healthy the selection was, how healthy the customer looked, whether they were happy about shopping, whether they were married, how many kids, etcetera. This might have seemed a lot to some, but she managed to do her silent categorisation while ringing up the items without making too many mistakes.

She was coming up for a break where she could think about what she had observed during the morning. The guy in the suit only had five items. Should have been in the fast checkout. Obviously not used to shopping, probably single. Lives with parents, maybe. The old lady with the new hairdo. Bought mainly basics. Healthy selections. The teenager shopping for someone else. Probably his mother. Wasn’t happy about it. Oh! Yes. The young woman who wanted to discuss whether she should return the canned soup, realising it was spicy, maybe too spicy… in the end decided to buy it. They were the only standout customers worth thinking about so far.

She occasionally wondered whether any of this was going to help her with her online study towards a degree in psychology.

Surely, it couldn’t do any harm.

At first, nobody noticed the odd looking character sitting at the back of the café.

He had a Mohican haircut that sported all the colours of the rainbow. His cheeks, forehead and neck where tattooed. His tattered pilot’s jacket was covered with badges and stickers. His skin was sickly pale and his eyes were bloodshot. His general appearance was strange, yet this was what he had deliberately created for himself. Before he managed to escape the family home, his father used to say he looked like a parrot. This would never deter him. It was his life after all, and he would live it his way. He had a windfall that morning, begging outside of the bus station. He hadn’t had a decent meal for days and it was hunger that had taken him there, this was supposed to be a real treat.

However, the fact was, he was eating too fast when it happened. He had barely started on his chicken and chips when he began to choke. Whatever it was, it was stuck fast. He tried desperately to cough it up, but it wouldn’t move. For the first minute or two he tried desperately to keep the embarrassing situation to himself. When he realised he couldn’t swallow or cough he began to panic. He got to his feet and began soft grunting noises. His eyes were now bulging and he was flailing his arms around wildly.

Other customers couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. Not because he was choking to death, but because he was obviously demented. Most figured drugs were involved. It was a sad reflection on society that it was becoming so common. Nobody seemed to notice that the blue of his face began to match some of the colours in his fanned hair style. After a few minutes of this performance he slumped back into his chair. His arms dangled on either side and his head slumped with his chin buried in his chest. After a few more twitches he remained still.

It was sad to think that he had always thought that his startling appearance would make his life more interesting for him.

Alas… it had robbed him of it!

It had been a very busy day.

Sitting on the bus, finally on his way home, he had so much of it still swirling around in his head. He was sure he was not alone in this. Other people must experience this same feeling of needing some sort of panacea to bring them out of it all. Something to let it all just drift away, even if it’s only for a short while. Some little piece of heaven. Of course, he mused, there were so many different ideas about what this could be. There must be so many different kinds. Surely, whatever ideas a person comes up with, these are necessarily coloured by their own personal preferences. Could one of them be some sort of intellectual repast? He smiled to himself.

As soon as he got home, he prepared a mug of coffee. He took it to his study. From a shelf he selected a CD case containing multiple discs. He opened it and took one out that contained works by Tomaso Albinoni. He fed it into the player and selected the track for his Adagio in G minor. He put it on pause. From another shelf he took down a large, hard backed book and placed it on the desk. He picked up his Bluetooth headphones. Once he’d settled into his comfy armchair, he adjusted them. He started the music.

Sipping his coffee, he picked up ‘The World’s Finest Art’ book and turned to the section devoted to Italian Renaissance painters. He opened the chapter showing some of the masterpieces by Sandro Botticelli. He turned pages until the painting Primavera appeared and almost immediately lost himself in the hidden mysteries of the artist’s work.

He let out a long, soft sigh.

Heaven!

The thick, weighty letter turned up in his mailbox.

He was a man who didn’t like surprises. Since childhood, he had avoided them. He liked things to be entirely as expected. Fewer unpredictable things had come into his life since retiring and he was happy about that. He thrived on the commonplace, he relished the mundane. He had a strong preference for what others might consider boring.

It was obviously more than just a letter, it was stuffed with something. The envelope was a strange turquoise colour, with a delicate blue filigree around the edges. It looked expensive. It was postage-paid with no stamp. It had been only partially franked by some postal authority in what looked like a foreign country. Although some of the letters were missing, he felt sure he’d never heard of it.

He took it in and dropped it on the kitchen table. He pushed his cross-word to one side and sat looking at it, while the kettle boiled. The address was certainly correct, handwritten in a bold script. He would have to admit to a mild curiosity, but that was all. What could anybody possibly want with him? He turned it over. He read ‘Sir Reginald Asquith’, in a similar script. It meant absolutely nothing to him.

The kettle clicked off.

As he poured his tea, a vague memory came to him. He felt sure he’d been at school with a boy named Asquith; Tim was it or Tom? He couldn’t remember.

After putting his cup down next to the newspaper, he picked the letter up, went to his waste recycling bin, lifted the lid and dropped it in.

Back looking at his cross-word he mumbled, “Where was I? Ah! Yes. Three down, five letters…”

Was it previous to this?

I’m looking for more.

It may have been earlier,

It’s mainly before.

–

Before any of this.

Previous, if you will.

Going back and back,

Or earlier still.

–

Much prior to this.

More than a touch beforehand.

Was there a much earlier time,

That tense could command?