Author: Alexander Fawn

He received a letter.

It was from the PC Section of the Motor Vehicle Division within the Department of Transport. It said that he was required to attend their offices for a brief appointment owing to an administrative issue regarding his motor vehicle licence. He was asked to take documentation to confirm vehicle ownership, his current licence and three forms of personal identification. He knew only too well how ‘Johnny Public’ was being hit with this kind of irritating bureaucratic red tape. He felt that there seemed to be a lot of this sort of thing going on of late. Anyway, regardless of how he actually felt about it, he presented himself at the nominated time. First, his paperwork was checked and after refusing the offer of tea or coffee, he was ushered into a small waiting room. He was the only one there. The appointment would indeed be brief.

After a few minutes he couldn’t help noticing that the building’s heating system must be playing up, as he was beginning to sweat. It was at this point that he got up and used the cool water dispenser in the corner of the room to fill a small plastic cup. Checking the time and muttering to himself, he sat back down, drinking it. He quickly fell asleep.

What actually happened after this, within the confines of the PC Section, was a threefold series of activities. First, the body bag, followed by the unmarked delivery van at the rear loading bay, and finally the missing persons notice being issued a few days later.

It was only a few who knew that PC actually stood for population control…

She knew how much her son liked jumble sales.

The trouble was, he tended to wander off. There was always the fear that he would do it one day and get lost, but today she thought he was old enough to walk around on his own. She said he could do this, but only if he stayed inside the building and looked to see where she was from time to time. With this agreement, he began looking at all the things laid out on tables around the room. There was such a lot to look at. If, as in the past, he found something that he really liked, she would sometimes buy it for him. He moved along to a table that was covered with small items. An old man with a white beard stood behind the table and watched him pick up a small box and look inside. There were several rings in it. He took them out one at a time. They were all far too big for him. He had a large brass ring that only fitted loosely over his thumb, when the man said. “Do you like it?”

The boy said, “No… I don’t think so.”

“Is that right?” came the reply.

The boy shrugged.

The man went on with a small voice, “What you have there, my lad, is a ‘future-ring’. There are not many of them around, I can tell you that.”

The boy’s interest was piqued. “What does it do?”

The man chuckled. “It shows you the future. That’s what it does!”

The boy looked confused.

The man held out his hand. “Let me show you how it works.” He took it and raised it up to his old, smiling face, saying, “You hold it like this. You hold it up to your eye and look through it to see the future. It doesn’t work every time, mind you. You have to get it just right.”

He handed it back and the boy looked at it more intently this time.

“Tell you what,” the man said, “that one’s free today.”

The boy was thrilled. He looked up and blurted out, “Thanks.” He rushed off to find his mother.

When told about it she looked back at the old man and gave him her own wave of thanks. They were running out of time, so she said she would have a good look at it when they got home.

When they arrived back, she made a cup of tea for herself and a fruit juice for him. Then, smiling at her son’s obvious excitement about his new treasure, she clapped her hands, softly. “Now then,” she began, “tell me more about this wonderful thing that the kind man gave you for nothing.”

He showed her. “The man said it was a future ring.”

“Oh! Did he now?”

“Yes.”

“Does it work?”

“Sometimes.”

“Let me see.” He handed it to her. She put it to her eye and looked through it at her son. She smiled as she gave it back and gave him a big hug.

When she’d finished squeezing him, he asked, “What did you see?”

“The future,” she said.

It reposes unseen.

It sits quietly in the forest, a lasting reminder of the Buddha, neither disturbing nor being disturbed. It looks as though it has been here a long time, but nature has been kind to it. Soft green tendrils lay across its shoulders. Its round face beams. It has been placed here, quite deliberately, beneath this ancient tree. The statue sits in silence under its great expanse of branches and shade giving leaves. It is a place of tranquillity, where it rests peacefully in silent harmony with nature. No doubt it has weathered all seasons as they passed. The changes have only heightened this thing of beauty. It has probably watched generations come and go.

Very few visitors come through this piece of aging woodland, with its thick entanglement of undergrowth. If they do, it may have briefly glimpsed humanity’s endurance. It has not been discovered.

It remains unseen.

This wasn’t his regular library, but he needed to keep up his reading. He was looking at the blurb on the back cover of a book, when a group of customer’s came in together. At least he thought they were customers at first, but they seemed to be together. This was despite the fact that their dress was so individual; each being radically different from all the others. The six men wandered into the central open area. He watched them as they settled around a table, then looked across to the front enquiry counter and raised his eyebrows. The man behind made a similar face and cautiously beckoned him over.

“Strange looking mob. Who are they?”

“Debating Club.”

“Wow! That’s interesting.” He looked back at them. “What do they debate?”

The librarian’s face fell. “Religion.”

“Oh! So, they’d be from different religions then?”

“They certainly are.” He produced a clip board. “Of course, I shouldn’t give out their names, but let me see… yes, they represent Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Hinduism, Buddhism and Atheism.”

“Well, I think that’s marvellous!”

“You do, do you?”

“I guess so; people of different belief systems coming together like this. There should be more of it.”

“Ha!”

“What, you don’t think so?”

The librarian grimaced and shook his head. He moved closer. “They’re on notice.”

“On notice?”

“Yep.”

“Really?”

The librarian spoke softer. “Yep. Last month it got ugly.”

“It did?”

“Caused a lot of damage. Had to call the police.”

“Oh!”

“They’ve been given one last chance.”

“Right,” said the man, looking over at the group and seeing that they had started their discussion. A hand came down on the table with a loud slap.

“It’s started,” said the librarian.

“You know, I don’t think it ever stopped,” said the man… and left quietly.

The two men had always gone on their adventures together.

The fact that one was blind and the other mute had never impeded their friendship. In fact, between them and together, they adequately managed most of life’s difficulties. Their latest adventure is of particular interest here. They were in Greece looking for a cave. Apparently, a place where no locals would dare to venture. When they found it, the blind and the mute entered the cave. As they went deeper into the cavern holding hands, Mute leading Blind of course, they became aware of a strange rustling noise. This, they both heard, naturally. They stood very still, listening to a sound that seemed to be coming closer.

“Can you see what’s making that sound?” Said Blind to Mute.

No answer came, obviously.

“Tap my shoulder if you can see anything,” said Blind.

No tap came. Mute now stood; a column of stone.

Blind stepped forward with an extended arm. To his surprise, he caught hold of a hand. It was quite small and soft.

“Well now,” said Blind, “what’s a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?”

She stood stirring the pot; this was her final solution.

It had been a rollercoaster of a day. First there was the big rush to get him to the airport. His usual bad temper, as though she was to blame for him running late. She had driven him there as quickly and as safely as possible. Naturally, he had rushed off without a thank you.

Then there was the item all over the radio on the way home and the television news coverage about his plane coming down not long after take-off. There were no survivors.

She had sat, staring at the screen, sobbing. No more sudden anger. No more slaps followed by profuse apologies. She had curled up on the sofa and let the tears of relief fall.

Then, there was his phone call from the airport.

He had missed his flight and was heading for a taxi. There was the same old anger in his voice.

She returned the small blue bottle to the garden shed then came back and laid the table.

He’d be so pleased; homemade Mulligatawny soup, his favourite.

She looked at the clock and went back to stirring the pot.

As a species they had just about everything going for them.

Their world had plenty of land for farming, the potential for an equal sharing of food was open to them, and there was enough wealth to go around for all. On the face of it, it was idyllic. There was so much that was plentiful, an abundance of everything. There was no need for anyone to worry about anything. However, ‘what could have been’ and ‘what was’, were two completely different things. The former did not allow for the all-pervasive push for more. More land, a great deal about land, more food, and more money. A never-ending striving for a bigger house, a nicer car, more expensive clothes, luxury travel, better quality food, and a better and more prestigious job. The people simply want more. There is no end to it.

Their masters, those who have all of these things and more, find that this endless craving quite naturally brings about a condition that is much to their liking.

This world is not far from home.

They never told anybody about the airport incident.

Why should they? There was really no point, and when you think about it, they did nothing wrong. They were just an innocent couple returning from an overseas holiday. You could say they were mister and misses nobody. That’s not to say they didn’t enjoy their annual break; they did. Taking two weeks out to travel away to somewhere different was a yearly event that they looked forward to. They always brought something home with them; sometimes a trinket or two, sometimes clothes. On this occasion he’d fallen in love with, and had bought, a jacket. It was a subtle shade of green with what he called football buttons. He liked it more than she did, but he had got his way. After a few remarks about its unusual colour he had deliberately bought a red handkerchief to stuff in its pocket. It certainly made him stand out in a crowd and she was fairly understanding, after all, they were on holiday.

Anyway, the incident, it happened just after they landed. They had collected their luggage and were set to go when she needed a toilet. They found one and he sat looking after the cases. It all happened so quickly. She was only just out of sight when it happened. He had picked up a paper someone had left on a seat and had barely read the headlines when the woman appeared. She was attractive, expensively dressed and was carrying a large handbag. To his surprise, she approached casually and stood in front of him. Smiling, she seemed to admire his jacket before taking the seat next him. She sat for a moment or two before she unzipped a piece of his hand luggage, removed a parcel from her handbag and dropped it in.

He was amazed at how quickly she had done the whole thing. It left him in a stunned silence. Then, without turning her head, she whispered, “Tell your people the governor is pleased with the service they provided.” At that, she stood and slowly walked away. He watched her go, gawping. He sat, still trying to take it all in. He peered down. The parcel was a bit bigger than a house brick. He put his hand in and lifted it a little. It was heavy. Something told him it was money, bank notes, lots of them, cash, payment for a service provided. He had time to turn it all over in his mind very carefully before his wife returned.

He saw her strolling back and patted the seat. She sat down, seeing that he had something to say. Quietly, he said, “While you were gone, something absolutely amazing happened.” She turned to look at him. She could see he was serious. He then recounted the incident as precisely as he could, before suggesting that they leave without delay.

When he’d finished, she said, “Shouldn’t we report it or something?”

He looked around and sighed. “What’s the point? Who’re we going to tell?” He shook his head slowly. “The only way any of this doesn’t go badly for us, is if we get out of here without anything else happening. D’you see what I mean? We should accept what has happened and just go.”

At that moment, she surprised herself with how tolerant she was being, first the jacket and now this! “OK,” she said, “if you think that’s best.”

“I do, but we need to move slowly, you know, normal, nothing unusual, just picking up our luggage and leaving the airport.”

As bartenders go, he was very popular.

Always willing to stop and talk. To pause just long enough when the place was busy and to share a drink and a chat when it was quiet. Naturally, being located across the street from the football stadium, those that regularly visited the pub had a predictable preference for talking football. Discussing the way a game went, how it should have gone, or the good judgement or otherwise of a particular referee. There always seemed to be a great deal to talk about, regarding the sport itself, the players, the team managers and owners, the rules, the price of admission, and so on. The bartender was always there with a knowledgeable contribution. He would dissect games with the best of them. He knew all of the teams, along with the names of most of the players within them. He knew the names of the coaches and the managers, along with their histories. It’s fair to say that he did very well for tips.

After closing time each evening, when he and the pub owner had cleared away, he left for home, taking his secret with him. It was safe.

No one would ever think to ask if he actually liked football.

He sits on the front porch, taking in the sounds of the neighbourhood.

In his rocker, with eyes closed, he swivels his head to take in any new sound that the world has to offer. He can hear a magpie’s song, the cry of other birds, and through the trees he hears the whistling of the wind. There is the buzz of an occasional fly, the drone of a highflying airliner, occasional voices from the street, the yapping of distant dogs and the jangle of wind chimes. He strains to hear the crackle of a backyard bonfire and the distant hum of vehicles.

He isn’t blind, he just enjoys listening.