Author: Alexander Fawn

She sits on a low wall, looking out across the park.

It is her habit to come here and take in the scenes that play out. She loves writing about them, describing them, bringing the various activities to life, in the form of a poem. The woman has always made time for writing poetry. She uses a large notebook to capture what she has to say. She scribbles quickly to describe things as they come about; a dog chasing a ball, children struggling up the climbing apparatus, people stopping to admire the flower beds, mothers pushing prams and strollers, family members joining in with their various ideas about where to put things on the picnic rug. All such things are being faithfully preserved in her pages.

Sometimes it can be a café, looking out through a window, or a bench on a city street. She writes about the activities as they happen. She is the recorder. Interactions between people, movements of traffic. Capturing scenes from life; setting them down in lines of poetry that reflect the way she sees them. Mostly she comes here to the park, where she sits and watches.

She sometimes wonders why she so much prefers to sit writing poems about what other people are doing, rather than doing them herself. What does it mean that she plays little part in what she sees? Is it at all strange that she prefers to record such things rather than be a part of what unfolds in front of her?

These thoughts do not linger.

This is her role.

The train was a long time moving off again.

He sat looking blindly at the platform’s advertisements. A woman came into view. She was running late. Did he recognise her? Surely, this was a girl from school. Now a grown woman; older, taller. He thought it was her, but he couldn’t be certain.

She was quite beautiful. Was she always that good-looking? He didn’t think so. Do people change that much in… how long would it be, ten, twelve years? Something like that. He couldn’t’ be sure.

She turned as she entered and walked towards him. She then spun around and sat down. Did she smile? Was it recognition? It was hard to tell from three rows back. Just before she turned her back to take her seat, she had looked at him for the briefest moment. He was pretty sure she did, but not completely certain. Was there a faint hint of recognition in that briefest of moments? There might have been, he couldn’t quite tell.

Metal screeched against metal as they pulled into the next station. He came out of his dream world, just long enough to see her get off and walk away down the platform. Did she raise a friendly hand as she exited? Was it an acknowledgement that she too remembered? Did it also evoke memories of their young, mostly unspoken, infatuation with one another?

He just couldn’t be sure.

From the time he was a young child he loved reading books.

So, when he was old enough, he joined the local library. He would read just about anything. Of course, as time went on he settled down into his favourites; these were mainly mystery and crime. That’s what made it so unexpectedly intriguing the day he came across the cover. It was late afternoon and the park was practically empty. The bus from school to home dropped him near the park and the footpath that ran along the far edge of it was part of his shortcut. It was on this occasion that he found the book’s cover. It was the soft cover of a paperback book. He surmised that it must have been a slim volume. Looking at the width of the spine it wouldn’t have had many pages. The picture on the front cover was interesting enough, but the title was almost obliterated with stains.

He looked around, and it was then that he noticed the pages. They had been scattered, by the wind presumably, halfway across the large, grassy field. It looked as though, despite being strewn around, they were all there. There was nowhere for them to go, being dotted around in the middle of such a wide expanse of field. So, it was with this sense of confidence that he proceeded to pick them all up. Having done this, he returned to the path and made his way to the nearest bench seat where he sat sorting them by page number. He felt sure he’d found them all when he came across the end page, but when all fifty odd pages were put in their correct sequence he realised that the first four pages were missing. Nevertheless, being an avid reader and regardless of the failing light, he sat and read it.

On continuing his journey home, he was plagued by the knowledge that quite apart from it being a really good read with a great ending, he just couldn’t imagine how it began!

The tramp sat with his legs out straight, eyes closed, leaning against the wall.

He had done a lot of walking throughout the day and was both tired and hungry. It was the middle of the afternoon and this was a place he visited regularly. This was a good spot because three of the shops that backed onto the alley would often bring scraps out to the large bins around this time, after their lunchtime customers had finished. It seemed to be a tacit agreement that he could take whatever he wanted, as long as he didn’t leave a mess.

He had almost fallen asleep when he became aware of people gathering at the bus stop a short distance away at the entrance to the main road. For some reason he found himself paying particular attention to a woman and a child that were obviously engaged in a deep conversation. The woman was bending down, discussing something with the girl. Moments later, he watched as the young girl approached. He could see that she was carrying something taken from a brightly coloured, plastic lunch box. She held it out to him with a nervous smile. He took it with a nod.

It was a small, brown paper bag.

He watched her walk away, back to her mother, who looked more than a little nervous that she had permitted such a thing. He continued to watch as they all got on the bus. He felt sure that he saw a hand waving as it disappeared from view.

He looked down at what he’d been given. He realised that the child had done it out of love. He contemplated love. No matter who you are, he supposed, love can come from just about anywhere.

He opened it to find half a cheese sandwich.

He walked the two blocks to school, with his parents’ row still buzzing through his head.

He left home abruptly. He’s been given no lunch today. He arrives early and takes his seat in an empty room. At his desk, he wonders, as he often does, what their home lives are like… these children around him. He has no real friends, but he thinks he should ask them anyway.

Now, late afternoon, he sits at his desk crouched over his book pretending to read down the page. His teacher has asked them all to do this. The words and the illustrations have no meaning for him. His head is still full of anger; his own, along with other peoples’. At home it never stops.

A siren sounds in the distance.

It falls silent.

At a house just a couple of blocks away, a police car sits outside his home. Inside, two officers have responded to a domestic disturbance. A man stands in handcuffs, whimpering. A bloody knife is secured in a plastic bag. A woman lies motionless.

Back in the classroom, there’s a tap on the door. He’s escorted to the headmaster’s office, where he’s told that his auntie will be collecting him today.

Some children get a better start in life than others…

He was driving his mother-in-law back to his house, when he made the detour.

He pulled up in front of a large building. He suggested she wait in the car because he’d only be a minute. While she was waiting she wondered whether she’d done the right thing by leaving the home. After a couple of minutes he returned with a large envelope, thanking her for her patience, saying it was just something he had to pick up. They continued on with their journey. At home, she was warmly greeted by her two grandchildren, who were thrilled with the idea that Grandma was going to move in with them. She got settled in her room and they all shared an evening meal. When the children were safely tucked up in bed, he produced the envelope and they all sat down.

His wife didn’t much like what she knew he was about to discuss. She thought it was rather insensitive, but she said she would stay out of it and keep quiet. He handed the old lady the envelope saying there was no rush, but he’d like her to give it some thought. Adding that he’d always felt that forward planning was very important.

Opening the envelope, she found a glossy brochure that showed a range of coffins…

He was the kind of guy that never seemed to be troubled by anything.

He just breezed through life. He never had any worries that amounted to anything. Money had never been a problem, it just came and went. Despite the doomsayers, he never had any concerns about what the future might hold. He was comfortable in his line of work and enjoyed it from day to day; for him, job security had never been an issue. His relationships with others were good and he was always comfortable about making new friends and being good to the ones he had. He was in good health and regularly attended a gymnasium. It had never occurred to him that he should worry about aging and the idea of his eventual death had never been a cause for concern. In all, he was a perfectly contented member of society.

Sadly, this all changed for him the day the man was elected president!

He knew he would have to re-evaluate.

The two men sat at a small table in the café.

They were both in their mid-thirties, both married, both had children, both worked locally and both had been best friends since their early school days. One joined the army straight out of school. One took an apprenticeship with a local engineering firm. They were of a similar build, except one wore a beard while the other was clean shaven. The beardless man was talking about his time in prison. The bearded man had heard his story before, but was always willing to listen. Although they met like this from time to time, their families didn’t socialize. Apart from their long-time friendship, they would talk about those things in their past that neither of them felt comfortable sharing with others.

Beardless had spent time in jail. He had been convicted of man-slaughter. He received a six-year sentence for his actions that lead to a man’s death. It had happened during a fight outside of a night club in a nearby city. What began as an argument inside had continued in the street after they were evicted from the premises. The dead man had hit the ground hard when he went down and died in the ambulance before reaching the hospital. Beardless had been married for two years at the time with his wife expecting their first child.

Bearded had been posted overseas and has vivid recollections of the killing that went on during his time there. Despite counselling, he has struggled to come to terms with what he had done. No amount of treatment has ridded him of the guilt and anguish felt about taking other people’s lives, even when they take place in a kill-or-be-killed scenario. His return home to his wife and child was a very difficult time for him. His nightmares started immediately and have been the cause of night-time chaos and disruption at home.

Beardless, who had taken a life illegally, had managed to move on with his life, thanks to the support of friends and family.

Bearded, who had taken a life legally, was struggling with his life and finding it hard to move on, despite the well intentioned support of friends and family.

They met from time to time to talk about those things in their past that neither of them felt comfortable sharing with others.

They had a common bond.

They were both killers.

It was the cat-lady’s morning routine.

Every morning she went to the back of the house and opened the door. Her five cats were always waiting for her, meowing and squeaking. She love feeding time. They were always so affectionate. She had bowls already lined up and filled with each one’s preferred food. She would put the bowls down, one by one, each time calling the pet by its given name. The old lady prided herself with her careful choice of these. They were individually named after people and friends that she’d known over the years. There were three queens and two toms. Of course, the ladies were served first.

Blossom was the first. She was a small, shorthaired tabby. She was a quiet cat and very much a sun lover. She was named after her neighbour’s granddaughter. Agnes came next, another tabby. A bit on the tubby side and very affectionate. She was given the name of her good friend and bingo partner. Then came Silvia, the Siamese. A naturally elegant creature, perhaps not so loving, rather snooty in fact. This was her favourite school teacher’s name, who was rather snobby, but a great English teacher.

Then came the boys. Finley was first. He was a grey Burmese. He was gentle and very young, not much more than a kitten. He was named after her daughter’s baby son.

Last to be called was Jack. Jack the Ripper. A large, brutish, animal. She sighed. He didn’t remind her of anyone.

He just killed birds!

It is a recurring cycle of an event, natural for them, with no judgment beyond this.

The sounds and smells of it tell us that it is happening. There is a great mixing of water. Filthy grey sludge slowly oozes from a pipe.

The factory’s waste plops ungraciously into the crystal clear running water of the stream. They know each other when they meet. It is a mingling that times past has made known to each. The narrow liquid band of running water moves quickly along its jagged path beneath the pipe, striking the pocked contours of its banks. It gathers up what falls. There is no contention here; no rebuttal, no disapproval.

The greater body of water maintains its steady flow, mindful of its duties to serve other elements, to be steadfast in its purpose. There is no issue here; no judgment or speculation. Both parties are subject to the rules of Mother Nature. They both abide by these.

Moving steadily towards some distant sea, they embrace one another in a broiling agitation of swirling movement. Crystal returns to clear soon after, with brown no longer seen. They are joined in an unseen fusion. The two, with equal resolve, move on with a relentless and persistent flow in the same direction.

The rivulet winds on with the permission and commendation of nature. These two have no issues with the event. There is no judgment or contemplation beyond this…