Author: Alexander Fawn

Her daughter’s photo took centre place on the sideboard.

It was a wedding photograph, taken professionally. The happy couple, on the church steps. Lots of confetti, lots of smiles, lots of happiness. It had been a sunny day with a gentle breeze, not enough to spoil the photographer’s attempt to capture the magic of the moment. People at the time agreed that they were meant for each other. People often say that a picture tells a story, you never hear them say that a picture’s story can be purely fictional and based on a lie. It’s hard to see what lies beneath. However, in her mind, she should have seen it. Visitors often ask why she keeps it there, the two of them, on full display like that. She always makes the same reply. “I should have seen it.”

When it happened, just a few weeks after that sunny day of celebration, her husband wasn’t able to cope. Coming on top of a chronic heart problem, he had succumbed to them both. Now all she has to cling to is the life they had all shared, before the picture was taken.

Sometimes, she has brief glimpses of what she was told about that night, but she quickly pushes them away. She often heals the moment by going back to the picture of her daughter’s happy face on the day. It had been her happiest face of all the pictures that had been taken of it.

As time passes, the flashbacks of it grow weaker and further apart. Flashbacks to the night of the birthday bash, the house full of guests, the drinking and the argument. Everybody being asked to leave, everybody did. Then came the even bigger disagreement, one that was physical and eventually violent…

Then, her body was found… he never was.

She should have seen it.

Having secured an invitation to visit the place, he knew he would receive an answer.

The Cave of Prophesy is only known by a few, and can only be attended by those who have had a personal invitation. Any such invitation would necessarily include instructions on how to find the place. The cave is located in a country in south-eastern Europe, on an island some distance from the mainland, on the south-eastern edge of the Aegean Sea. It is guarded by the followers of the Master of the Pool. This venerable person is not a profit, but guides those who make the journey there, seeking answers. The pool itself is quite small, slightly larger than the average household bath. It is shallow with crystal clear water that remains perpetually at the same level. Those who have put their trust in the mystic water in the cave and what it reveals have been doing so for centuries.

Under the guidance of the Master, the visitor kneels on the hassock provided, at the edge of the circular pool, and with one finger stirs the surface. When ripples become evident across the surface it is time to ask a question. The answer, either a yes or a no, appears in the pool and remains clearly visible for a few seconds before fading away.

After verifying his invitation, he met the master and was taken to the pool. He knelt down and stirred the water. He watched for the ripples, and with a nod from the master, he called out, “Should I marry Joan or Elizabeth?”

There’s no point in sugar-coating it, they threw him out.

He sat in the shed at the end of the garden, not wanting to go into the house.

The test results were not good. Three months at the most, or maybe weeks, the doctor had said it was hard to say. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her, or his son. He would have to at some stage, but not yet. They knew he was sick; knew he was taking pills. He just needed a couple of days to think it through. He sat, thumbing through the sketches he’d made for the rabbit hutch his son needed for his new pet. It had been decided that they would all go to the pet shop together when it was built. He put his plans down and stared at the lengths of timber he’d purchased for the job. He’d been in there a long while. It was getting dark.

Meanwhile, in the house, his son comes home from school, collects the mail on the way in and goes to his room. His wife sits reading a cookbook, not sure what to get for dinner. She finally decides she would try a new recipe, although it would be a challenge. Looking down at the list of ingredients, she knew her husband would appreciate it.

Later, she is putting her latest creation on the table. Her son sits down for dinner, while his father discovers a letter marked ‘Urgent’ sitting on the hall table. He recognises the hospital’s logo stamped in the corner. He tears it open. He reads, sincere apologies… test results incorrect… new appointment… terrible mix up… more apologies…

He runs to the shed, turns on the light, marks and cuts a piece of wood to length. Looking at the plans, he picks up several more pieces and lays them on the bench.

She would be angry.

He would explain later.

The man on the phone said he had information he’d like to give to the police.

He had asked specifically for the detective. He sounded nervous and wanted to meet somewhere quiet, he didn’t want to be seen. He said he knew things. He said his life would be in danger if word got out that he was talking to the police. The detective understood this. He had several informers on his books. More than most, he thought. They arranged a meeting for the following evening in the old warehouse on the edge of town.

The detective found the man waiting when he arrived.

The man tapped his temple. “The first thing you need to know is that I can see into the future. Your future; or your two possible futures.” He smiled. “Your two equally possible futures.”

The detective felt uneasy. “Go on.”

“You recently had a person convicted and sent to prison for the bank robbery in the high street, and the money was recovered. Correct?”

“That’s right.”

The man went on. “You had an informer that enabled you to accomplish this, I believe.”

The detective was becoming wary. “Well, that might be the case, but…”

“Oh! My employers assure me that it is the case,” the man cut in, “and they wish to know who that person was. We know how important it is to maintain the anonymity of valuable informers, but my employers lost a sizeable investment when that took place and they now wish to put the matter right.”

The detective went to speak, but he fell silent when he saw the gun come out.

“Like I said,” the man’s tone became hard, “I can see into the future, and you have two equally possible futures.”

He quickly screwed the silencer on and raised the gun.

He whispered, “Decision time.”

Ring, ring the toll,

The dog is in the hole.

Who pushed it down?

Naughty Johnny Brown.

Who got it back?

Kindly Tommy Black.

What is it we think lies below?

Do we imagine such things as a dark abyss?

Or the great inferno that is the underworld of Hades?

Or other fiery places such as this?

–

Is it a kingdom where Lucifer rules?

A realm with fiery demons?

And what waits for those debauched spirits that enter?

No piety there, no loving grace, and all that is good, cast aside,

Leaving only the whim of the great tormenter.

Is it where wretched souls spend their time,

Beyond the brink of eternal damnation?

All spirits overtaken by terror.

All senses beyond pain and anguish, gone.

With no hope of reprieve, no chance of salvation.

–

What if all this was built within.

With sin-filled hearts fully broken,

And the constant pain of a self-lit fire,

And a world that’s gone awry.

–

Remedies abound to put things right.

They can be used with an inbuilt will.

Perdition awaits for those who don’t,

While never knowing why.

–

What if simple traits are brought about?

Like being honest in one’s affairs,

Or showing politeness to strangers,

Or using stimulants in moderation,

Or being generally kind,

Or caring about others…

Could this be how the gates of Hell remain closed?

With such laughably modest behavioural modification.

–

If one can be all of these things for most of each living day,

If this can be the natural case,

Knowing this requires more strength to build than to deny,

Then, how many really understand that it’s a state of mind,

And know that it’s not a place?

He was at the bedside of his soon to be late business partner.

The dying man barely recognised his visitor and was continually drifting in and out of consciousness. They had been in business for a number of years and had built it up from nothing. They had known one another a long time. Outside of the company their two families had often socialised. The visitor sat listening to the monotonous beeping of the heart rate monitor. He laid his hand on his partner’s arm. There was a slight movement.

“By the way,” he began, “I found out what you were up to last year.”

He wanted him to take the message with him.

“I know about your gambling habit and I know about the embezzlement. I covered for you to keep the business going. It nearly ruined me and I stopped respecting you or considering you as a friend eight months ago.”

He got up quietly and left.

It was by the grace of God that he was already in the elevator and spared the sound of the monitor’s beeping change to a flatline monotone.

His personal feelings about what he was doing were coming to a head.

He was beginning to realise that being a superhero had its drawbacks. Although he enjoyed bringing about order from chaos, saving lives, beating off villains and generally wowing people, too often his efforts were not fully acknowledged. In fact, there were times when he received pretty negative attitudes following his courageous activities. Sometimes he had to put up with receiving a certain amount of blame for what he did. It had even been suggested that it would have been better if he hadn’t interfered. This attitude, showing no appreciation for his efforts, was often deeply hurtful. More and more, he considered the citizens he was protecting were just plain ungrateful.

It came as a great surprise to those who had enjoyed his extraordinary services over the years when it was discovered that he had shot through, leaving his cape and mask hanging over the back of a chair in his rented room. The huge shock this had delivered to the general population was made worse by the fact that all attempts made to discover his whereabouts turned out to be fruitless.

Meanwhile, his work as an orderly in an aged care facility was so much more rewarding.

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…