Author: Alexander Fawn

She was just a girl who liked everything black.

Although she was a brunette, she dyed her hair black. Her hair clips were black. She always wore black lipstick. Her eyeliner and brow colour were black. Her mascara and eyeshadow were always black. With regular visits to her local nail salon, she had her fingernails and toe nails coloured black. Naturally, it goes without saying that her clothes were chosen in a similar way. Putting it simply, everything she wore was black. Tops and jackets, jeans, slacks and shoes, all black. She wore black scarves and only used black handkerchiefs. When it rained she used a black umbrella. When the weather was cold she wore a black beanie.

At the end of the day, she was just one of those people who preferred the gothic look. She was extremely fond of black. All this being said, she was actually a very nice person.

Which makes it particularly sad to say that when walking home late one night she was run over by a car.

He was sitting, relaxed for a long time, eyes glazed.

He could feel it coursing through his veins. The warmth moved through him, bringing a blissful grace. His thoughts, his feelings, his sensations, were all changing, becoming more real, yet somehow not real at all. It was as though a completely fanciful hallucination had taken hold. He was experiencing a kaleidoscope of emotions. It was like some great surging sense of euphoria had taken him into a dream world while being still quite awake. From time to time he would drift out of his body, then slowly return. It would be difficult for him to fully express the ecstatic joy he was feeling. The rapture of it was carrying him to an amazingly new sphere of existence.

He knew only too well, that the pleasure, the excitement and intense feelings of well-being and happiness, were all brought about by the activation of a region of the brain triggering the release of feel-good hormones like dopamine. But, that was science, and that was not this…

A kindly attendant passed in front of him, pointing at the clock.

The spell was broken.

Staring at Botticelli’s Primavera oil painting had always made him feel this way.

Something stirs beneath the muddy waters of the swamp.

Many creatures inhabit wetlands, and the everglades of Florida are no different, but the reptilian form that scrambles out of the swamp can be found nowhere else. It slithers its way into the sun and lies perfectly still; it’s species unknown. It remains basking until its last slimy scale is baked hard and brittle. The outer layer is then violently shaken off, leaving the manlike thing to climb to its feet. It begins to walk, slowly at first, then faster and faster. The naked form breaks into a steady run. It has a long way to go before finding what it needs, a residence, a home.

It is night and the large house is quiet. The last of the lights go out and the figure finds a way in and climbs to the bedrooms. Three sleeping figures, mother, father and son. Going from room to room, it touches the foreheads of each and their sleep is made deeper. It finds the man’s clothes hanging and selects. Dressed now, it gathers a cell phone and cash. Back down in the lounge, with lights on, a fast learner, it sits using Google maps. Destination, the White House, 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

Sixteen hours by car, two weeks on foot. It chooses the latter. It steps outside, leaving the front door ajar.

It begins to walk.

Its purpose, unknown.

Nobody saw it arrive.

It is a sleek, silver disc, inhabited by two of the fleet’s most decorated soldiers. It is an alien ship, fully equipped with the latest and most sophisticated otherworld technology. It has entered a new region. As a craft, its military capabilities are phenomenal. Slowly, it lowers towards a truly vast expanse of sea. It settles noiselessly on the surface. The craft floats silently on a frothy sea. The water looks murky. Great bubbles slide around on its surface. The occupants arm themselves and open the main hatch.

Moments later the two indescribably ugly aliens emerge. The saucer rocks gently on the surface as they stagger out onto the railed observation deck built into the edge of the craft. They each make notes on what they are seeing, on their hand-held report pads.

Momentarily the sky grows dark.

The woman returns to the kitchen, notices that she hasn’t emptied the sink after washing up and pulls the plug. She doesn’t notice the tiny disc swirling around and disappearing down the plughole. She doesn’t hear the strange screams, screams that are being drowned out by the familiar gurgling of the emptying sink.

Nobody saw it leave.

The solstice has the sun held firm,

With winter’s pervasive mood about.

The very dampness of it all.

Sick lunacy alone, sees us stepping out.

–

Grey skies with early morning shudders.

Mortality at its worst.

Nature thumbing its icy nose,

Annually rehearsed.

–

Coats, umbrellas, gloves and scarves,

To ward off hailstones, frost and storms.

Thunder, lightning and freezing fogs,

In no time at all become the norms.

–

Leaves replaced by ugly twigs,

Black against an ashen sky.

A strange coldness in the bones.

A pathetic sun, by and by.

–

This is winter’s frightful kiss,

It brings on days cursed with grey.

With folks scathing of what it sends,

All warmth is held at bay.

–

Nature sleeping, survival low,

With hibernation in full swing.

All cold, in the ground below.

Some hiding from the season’s sting.

–

An uncomfortable world we’re meant to share,

When only the chill persists.

Even hearts are cold, when seeking warmth,

With laboured breath that mists.

–

Winter’s sombre cloak and sluggish pace,

Has shadows bringing shades of gloom.

Short, sad days with colours veiled,

While frosty evenings loom.

–

A season thrust upon the dwellers here,

Winter’s sanction, winter’s curse!

And shun the fool who says,

It could be worse.

The shop was full of customers.

She had only left her supermarket trolley unattended for a moment or two. On one of the lower shelves, the brand of sauce she preferred had been shuffled to the back. It looked to be the only one left. Her arm was just long enough to retrieve it. As she straightened she saw the man standing by her cart, blocking her view of it. She pushed her way through several shoppers, only to find him casually strolling away when she got there. She quickly checked her bag. Her purse was there; notes, coins, cards, all there. Then, her small side pocket? Empty! No house key. She stood shaking her head and sighing for a moment. The man had calmly sauntered off with her house key. Her grin was unseen.

She finished her shopping, paid and left. Carrying her shopping bag, she began the short walk home, thinking about what she would find there. She had a pretty good idea about that. When she arrived, she collected the spare key from under the cactus pot and let herself in

The moment she was through the door, she heard the growling accompanied by a whimpering. First, she took her shopping through to the kitchen. She would unpack it later. She found him in the living room. He was lying sideways on the floor, with the dog firmly anchored to his leg. The dog was still growling and the man was sobbing. He looked at her, his eyes pleading.

In a restrained voice, he said, “I’m sorry. Get him off.”

She pulled a face that said this wasn’t going to happen. She said, “Sorry, no can do. We’ve had this trouble before, him latching onto someone’s leg like that. Had to call the vet out to tranquilise him before his jaw hung loose and we could get him to let go.”

Raising his voice, the man said, “OK. Just get a vet. The pain is excruciating.”

Ignoring him, she looked around. “Did you take anything?”

“No. No, I didn’t. I only just got here, moments before you arrived.”

“Oh! So, he hasn’t had his teeth in you that long, then?”

“Long enough!” he shouted. “Come on, call the vet, why don’t you?”

“Ah! Aha! There you have it, you see. You’ve hit the nail right on the head. Why don’t I?” She left the room and brought back one of the chairs from the kitchen. Putting it down in front of him, she sat looking down at him.

“Well done Buster,” she said with a commanding tone.

The dog growled and bit down harder.

The man screamed.

“I’m not sure what to tell you first, about me or the dog?”

She shrugged.

He began to sob again.

“About the dog, I think.” She smiled lovingly at him. “He’s a Rottweiler, you see. They are easily one of the most dangerous dog breeds you can find.”

The man choked out, “The vet!”

“Be quiet!” she shouted. “I’m talking. Anyway, that’s about Buster.” She looked at the dog with a nod and he responded with a slight shake of his head.

The man screamed again.

“Now. About me,” she said, “If my ex-husband was still here, he’d be only too happy to tell you that I’ve always had a wide streak of vindictiveness in me, and with good reason. The truth is, you picked the wrong house to rob.” She looked at his leg. “I see your bleeding. I’ll have to call someone soon; you could lose your leg.”

“Vet,” the man croaked. “I’m so sorry.”

“Um. Not that simple, is it?”

He nodded.

“With you losing blood like that, maybe I should call for an ambulance first. You see my difficulty, don’t you? Not only that, there’s the matter of the police, don’t you think?”

His head was shaking.

She raised her eyebrows. “Well, they have to be informed sooner or later you know, but I prefer later. Naturally, I’m not going to tell them about our little chat. No. I came home and found you lying there and called the police and the ambulance straight away. If you come up with another story, well, who are they going to believe? An opportunist thief or a respectable home owner?” She got up and moved towards the door.

He managed to say, in a weak voice, “Where are you going? I need a vet!”

Over her shoulder, she said. “I’m going to put my shopping away and boil the kettle. Then, I’m going to make myself a nice cup of tea and think about who I should call first… the police, the vet or an ambulance.”

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.