Author: Alexander Fawn

There was a time, decades ago, when people worked in factories.

The motor vehicle is a good example of this. Although they had a lot of really clever robotic arms to move parts and equipment around, they still had workers at all of the processing areas. Next came the new generation of machines that didn’t require people to oversee them. They managed themselves. Then every machine in the factory was linked to all the others. This meant that they became truly self-managing; meaning self-scheduling, self-cleaning and self-repairing. Those first consolidated plants were pumping cars out at such an increased rate that the cost of production dropped radically and so did the prices at the car yards. They became cheap enough to be within reach of most people who hadn’t got one. Everybody wanted a car and eventually, worldwide, just about everybody did.

Unhappily, last week it was officially announced that the world has run out of oil.

Currently there is a huge rush on bicycles.

Tyres may be a problem…

The three remaining family members entered his old study.

The three ladies, a wife and two daughters, stood looking around.

His wife looked around and said, “It was here that he sat, day after day, during his years of retirement. He used to call it scribbling. As you know, each week he would update his blog with new posts. Short stories and poems used to be added regularly.”

Now, in this unoccupied room at the back of the house, just remnants remained in an empty room. A desk and chair, a few wall hangings and a bookcase lined with binders. These being a compendium of all his work; a series of books containing written material from his earliest writings, through to the end. Each one labelled with a year and number. Paper copies of everything!

“Perhaps we can leave it all as it is for a while, sort of… out of respect,” said one.

“Not very practical, I need the space,” said his wife. “Anyone interested in these?” she said, pointing to the row of books.

Heads shook. “Not really,” one said, “I wouldn’t know where to put them. I suppose I could use the binders… but even then; it’s a matter of space. They all nodded. “I agree,” said another, “I wouldn’t know what to do with them.”

 “Seems a shame,” said one. “I could empty them out and probably find some worthy cause, or maybe a charity for the covers. Those at least, shouldn’t go to waste.”

In the corner, unseen, the departed man’s spirit just shrugged and sighed, while in the lounge his ashes turned in their urn.

He only died last week.

An old man in a crumpled suit sits by the door.

This is his favourite spot, whenever he visits the shopping centre. He has a clear view of customers coming and going. He’d never really left his days working as a biostatistician behind; marrying statistics and biological data. He’d spent most of his working life applying his expertise to help medical researchers draw conclusions about population data, using his knowledge to design, analyse and interpret observational and intervention studies. Now, in retirement, his balding head and two days growth of stubble belie his eminent past.

It had all been about making calculations based on optimal sample size, organizing data collection, the programming of surveys and off-line data collection forms for cellular devices, the comparison of groups using parametric tests, performing survival analysis with life tables, his preparation of summaries describing the methodologies and analytic techniques he had used, his independent review of the statistical reporting of results, the fine tuning of existing analyses based on reviewer feedback and, of course, his own submission of reports. Primarily, it was all about using medical data in relation to human biology and health. That was the target, but he preferred the journey.

He sits now, watching people coming in and going out. Three in and two out. The three entering are girls, all teenagers. The two leaving are a middle aged couple. He mentally groups them by the basics, such as gender, age, and in some cases he can categorize them by employment, income, and even housing and education. He feels his degree of interpolation and guesswork is pretty accurate. In the main, he is putting societal and cultural factors aside. He sticks mainly to the basics.

Occasionally, he is able to mentally review the silently gathered statistics when the main entrance to the centre falls silent. Today the place had been busy with shoppers exchanging places with others, those exiting and those entering. It was a kind of exchange, a swapping of ins and outs, an ongoing interchange, a random pattern of movement, an endless to and fro of human traffic. It was a kind of unspoken reciprocal agreement between shoppers.

Five in and one out. The five were in two groups; mum, dad and daughter in and a teenage boy out. Then after a quiet lull, the rush is on; the mid-morning crowd, people popping out in their tea breaks to do a quick bit of shopping. He settles back, holding his empty takeaway coffee cup, which is more of a prop than anything, just to show some reason for him sitting there, and he starts counting. Twelve in through the door, a couple leave, six more in, two go out, three in, one out…

Deep down, he was having fun. The fact was, when all was said and done, for him, it simply comes down to statistical reciprocity.

It came about earlier, during the morning.

Now, sitting on a park bench, half watching joggers doing the circuit, he worked the thing mentally. He was good at this. The whole idea of decision making, the way different people go about it and how much time a person might be willing to take in order to come to a resolution they are happy with, had always fascinated him. He considered that the variables involved in this particular mental activity were probably beyond measure. He began thinking about all the great decisions that had been made throughout history. What compelled Nelson to put his telescope up to his blind eye and decide that he didn’t see the signal to withdraw from a naval engagement?

A flashback to the morning, first thing, in the corner shop, buying bread.

Anyway, just think about it… Truman’s decision to drop the A-bomb, Martin Luther King’s decision to tell everybody that he had a dream, Henry Ford’s decision to double his workers’ wages overnight, Chesley “Sully” Sullenberger’s decision to ditch the plane in the Hudson River, Hitler’s decision to attack the Soviet Union, Julius Caesar’s decision to cross the Rubicon, and Gandhi’s decision to prevail against the British Empire without bloodshed.

Yet another flash back, seeing the array of coloured pens on the counter, he needed one, but not now, not then, other things needed his attention.

How about Buddy Holly’s last minute decision to take the plane trip, Boris Yeltsin’s decision to embrace a new world order, Cleopatra’s decision to rescue Egypt, British War Cabinet’s decision to fight on after the fall of France, Reagan and Gorbachev’s decision to knock down the Berlin Wall, and the Apple board’s decision to bring back Steve Jobs after firing him.

A final flashback… ah! Yes, a resolution. He got up and made his way back to the shop.

He’d get a red one.

I am everything.

I am the sun that warms the land and the sea. I am the land, the valleys and the rivers. I am the sea, the waves and the tides. I am the wind and the birds, the animals and the forests. I am the flowers and the insects that fly and crawl. I am the moon and the stars. I am all these things. All these things together and more; all things that are. All that there is in the one moment. And I am all that isn’t. All that is and all that isn’t, together in a single moment in time.

I am…

She wanders through the market.

The shops and stalls are all busy. She has what she needs; her shopping is modest. She enters the section where florists put out their floral displays. She strolls slowly passed, admiring each. She sees couples doing the same. Lovers, holding hands and chatting about what they see. Their happiness shows. She sees and buys a lovely bouquet and takes it home. There, she puts water in a vase and arranges the flowers. She places them in the middle of the table in her lounge and settles into an armchair, looking at them admiringly. What a truly lovely thing, she thought, to receive these from my lover.

She sat with very fond thoughts about the lover she never had.

As doctors go, he was unique.

Because of the nature of his work, he found it necessary to maintain a low profile. In fact, the actual number of clients was small. He dealt with those who also preferred to stay below the radar. His rather special abilities as a medical practitioner were that he was able to cure anything; absolutely anything. This included diseases sometimes, but in the main, injuries. On some special occasions this involved bringing back the dead. As far as the crime bosses were concerned, this was his main talent. This was the thing that made him so valuable and kept him protected. His patients came to his carefully concealed rooms at the back of one of the crime syndicate’s restaurants. Without exception they came from the underworld of crime.

Whereas most people within the numbers of those that he dealt with appreciated his special skills, this was not the case everywhere. Down below, a completely different attitude was building momentum. It took a while before it was noticed that the odd soul was going missing from Hades. This was, of course, a different kind of underworld. The man in charge down there was furious when his minions gave him the news. It was evident that nothing like this had ever happened before. It was a given that when a soul was cast down into the fiery depths of Hell, it stayed there… forever!

It was the case that up above no one gave any thought to the problem, while down below the opposite was the case. Down there a great deal of head scratching went on in order to come up with a solution.

In the end, the answer was simple.

It came as a horrible shock to those above when they found their specialist medical practitioner in his rooms, on the floor, as dead as a Dodo.

He was crouching as low as he could behind the waterfall.

He hoped that the curtain of water hid him from view. There was no way the animal would hear his gasping and heavy breathing above the crashing cascade of water. All he had to do was stay perfectly still. He had no idea how much movement could be seen from the other side. Could it smell him? He began to shiver. Moments before he was sweating from the long dash through the trees. It was clear that the animal was after him.

Although he had only got brief glimpses of it as it came crashing through the steamy jungle, he felt sure it was a tiger. Whatever it was, it was huge. Had it gone away or was it just a short distance away? Was it out there, crouching like him, just waiting? He knew that animals were very good at waiting. How long would he have to wait?

The question was answered when a booming voice shouted, “Come on son, out of the shower!”

He sat, watching the bird, almost amused.

Almost, because there was something sad about the crow’s antics. He stopped watching and closed his eyes. He went back to his thoughts; visions of happier times. He had almost finished his psychology degree when things went pear-shaped. He thought about the girl he may well have gone on to marry. His parents, that had always been good to him, had always supported him, until… He couldn’t blame them, couldn’t face them. He could never go back. He couldn’t blame the drugs either. The drugs were just there. He was the one that took them. Then came the shameful end of his part-time job, his only source of money. He was no longer capable of performing simple tasks. He had been high so much of the time.

The rustling caught his attention. The crow was now deep in the bin, rummaging around noisily. Scraps of cellophane and paper littered the path. Memories kicked in. Those tiny plastic bags that contained the precious powder, that were so easy to get, so available. He had the money, back then. Then came the arrest. The charge was burglary. His parents had all but disowned him. He needed the money for drugs; he was honest about that. The streets are his home now. Now, no job, no bed, no drugs, no rent money, no food.

He gave a start as the crow managed to toss a food container out of the bin and onto the ground. He watched as it desperately tried to break it open. He realised, he too was hungry. He remembered back, less than a year ago, regularly taking his girlfriend out for a meal at a local fast food café. With a shudder, he looked on as the bird wrestled desperately with a container that it couldn’t open. He knew that hunger was driving it. With a shake of his head, he stood, knowing that he should find somewhere else. He became aware of the fact that he wasn’t enjoying the bird’s company.

Its desperate predicament was far too close to his own.

His blogsite is certainly not grand,

With most backgrounds the colour of sand,

Like it or not,

That’s what you’ve got,

For that is the way it was planned.