Author: Alexander Fawn

He was still dodging the rain and thinking about Brightlington.

His mood was gloomy. Was the age factor playing a big part in this? Was it all completely inevitable? He stood thinking about the decades between then and now. He found himself considering the changes in their lives. Their two children, now grown up and living quite separate lives. Lives that were completely different to their own, of course. Over all those years, should he have done something different? They had both changed over the years. After all, he was a few years older than her, this was having a greater toll on him than her. Was he responsible for it all coming to this, or was it her? Should she be more tolerant and understanding? Or were they both equally responsible? How much of all this fell to him? He wasn’t sure.

He shuddered with the cold.

He knew that their love for each other had lasted. He had always loved her, and she had always loved him; but what had brought about the changes that had taken place between their love for each other?

His reflections paused for a moment to wonder how she was going with the groceries. Taking a deep breath, he looked around at the greyness of his world.

Of course, there had been those years of heavy drinking and his growing compulsion to gamble, but that was all behind him now. What part these had played in the whole scheme of things, he didn’t know. That was all well and truly in the past.

Was it all inevitable?

He shrugged.

When all was said and done, he still had Brightlington!

The room is dimly lit, save for the bright lamp above the metal table.

The body on it is covered from neck to toe with a white sheet. The man that approaches is a forensic pathologist. He knows that part of his professional duty is to remain focused on what he needs to do. He knows that there should be no room for personal feelings, when dealing with such cases. He is simply charged with the job of determining the cause of death and preparing a report that will go to the coroner. He looks again at the paperwork. The Police Report says ‘murdered prostitute’. He pauses for a moment. He sighs. He doesn’t like these. He sees it as just another sad case.

His work is done.

He flips the sheet up over her head and crosses to the desk.

He reluctantly jiggles the stamp on his inkpad, before picking it up.

He sighs again, before bringing it down hard on the section that shows the actual cause of death; ‘NAÏVETÉ’.

The unit was still in the development stage.

The work being carried out in the university’s basement had been restricted to only a selected few. It was obvious that the widespread attention on Artificial Intelligence technology, had prompted the technology students to invest their time down there, with research and development. Owing to the growing uptake of AI technology at such an amazing speed, the top brass was happy to allocate funds to the project. As AI has been responsible for solving many problems that have continually eluded humans, huge investments have been made by companies, and even governments. In fact, some major organisations have embraced AI as their primary driver for the management of their business.

On this particular evening, a keen young student had entered the project’s build-area, where the AI Generator Machine was set up. He was so engrossed in what he was typing, he jumped when the door opened and the project leader, a more mature student, came in.

The leader said, “I see you’re getting an early start this evening.”

The student tapped a couple of keys and swung around in his chair. “Yes. Is that alright?”

“That’s fine, what are you up to?”

The student nodded and said, “I was just typing in a few basic questions.”

The leader grimaced. “Yes, well, I have to admit, it’s all coming along a great deal faster than I had expected, but I don’t think it’s ready for anything too advanced yet.”

The other, nodded again. “No, it’s all pretty simple really. I’m only asking for a few improvements.”

The leader shook his head. “It’s a bit premature, I’m afraid. It won’t give you any subjective judgments or opinions, such as anything involving ethics or morality.” He chuckled. “It simply isn’t that clever.”

“Yes, maybe. I just thought I’d give it a go anyway.”

“Improvements, you say; such as?”

He reads from the screen, where he had been typing in several items before uploading them. “Let me see… I’m asking how to Improve our sustainable access to food and stamp out hunger, how to Improve the welfare, healthcare and safety of children worldwide, how to improve global health and reduce air pollution, how to improve water management and reduce water contamination, how to reduce the violations of human rights, how to prevent climate change getting worse, how can we work towards an end of extreme poverty and hunger, generally, and how to reduce military conflicts and maintain world peace and security.”

The leader chuckled again. “Wow! All I can say is, good luck with all that.”

The output printer starts ticking.

“Seems like we’ve got an answer.”

The leader raised his eyebrows. “Really? I have to admit; I’m certainly impressed. What does it say?”

The younger man, screwed up his face. He read out, “Don’t be silly.”

He was meandering through the city’s lanes when he came across it.

It was the name of the shop that first caught his attention. Despite being called ‘Treasure Trove’, the window display seemed to be made up of single, everyday objects. There was a pencil, a comb, a golf tee, a teaspoon, a marble, and so on. In fact, several dozen objects were laid out randomly like this, on what appeared to be an old bath towel. Each thing had a tiny price tag beside it, much too small to read. On entering, he realised that the shop itself was bare of anything, other than the items he’d seen in the window. A man sat reading a newspaper behind a small counter. After a brief smile he went back to his reading. Wandering over to the assortment of objects, he picked up the tee. The tag beside it looked as though it had been priced at 950 dollars!

Consumed with curiosity, he took it to the counter. He started to say, “Excuse me but…”

The owner held up a finger, put his paper down and said, “Yes? How can I help you, today?”.

Placing the tee on the counter, he said, “I see this has been marked up at 950 dollars.”

“Yes?”

“Well, you can buy a packet of these for just a few dollars.”

The shop owner chuckled and said, “We get this a lot!” He then cleared his throat and went on with a more serious tone. “I’m sure you’re right.” He pointed at the tee. “This however, is something else.”

He picked it up, lovingly.

“Ah! Yes, but this item is quite unique.”

“Is it, really?”

The other nodded. “This little beauty is the golf tee used by David Toms during the 2001 PGA Championship, when he made the best hole-in-one shot of all time.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

He stood thinking for a moment. He had a friend who played golf. He said, “Well, that’s amazing… I’ll take it.”

The owner said, “Of course; shall I wrap it?”

The man nodded as he opened his cheque book.

The other tore off a piece of his newspaper, wrapped it and applied a piece of sticky tape.

With the sale completed, the owner said, “If you are at all interested, I happened to come across another little treasure recently. You may also be interested in this. He took a small box from beneath the counter. Removing the lid and dropping his voice, , he said, “This is the handkerchief used by Sir Laurence Olivier to mop his brow after getting out of his suit of armour, having just delivered the St Crispin’s Day speech, during the filming of Shakespeare’s Henry V.”

“Wow!”

“Yes. Wow indeed. It has been laundered, of course.”

“Well, I must say, that would make it amazingly unique.”

“Yes, unique, as you say, but this particular item would set you back at least five times what you have already paid, I’m afraid.”

The other grunted. “I think I should be happy with my new treasure, for now.” He patted his pocket. “But, thank you anyway.” With a shake of the hand, he left the shop.

Making his way back to the main road with a firm grip around the purchased bargain in his pocket, he smiled.

He could hardly wait to show it to his friend…

The elderly farmer had a favourite idiom come to mind, as he looked out of his bedroom window.

Once bitten, twice shy, is what he thought. He’d been ridiculed consistently for almost five years since the last time these guys visited. Nobody believed him. That wasn’t going to happen this time! He switched his bedside light off to get a better look. Yes, it was them alright. It looked like the very same ship. He well remembered the last time. The humming sound when the saucer was landing, that had woken him back then. The lights twinkling around the edge of the saucer. The ugly little buggers coming down the ramp. It had been a hand-held ray gun they used to disable him. He couldn’t move; that’s how they got him into the saucer. The filthy creatures had poked and prodded him for hours. They must have tranquilised him or something, because he didn’t have a clear memory of what had happened. He had to admit that no real harm was done to him. But the cheek of it!

After they left last time, he quite naturally told people about the whole experience. He thought they’d be interested, but they just didn’t believe him. That’s when the jokes and leg-pulling started. He thought it would die off after a while, but it didn’t. He’d show them, this time!

Standing there in the dark, he began to figure out what was needed. He knew that he shouldn’t show himself; that’s how they got him last time. He had hardly gone out through the front door when the ray hit him. The other thing he was aware of was the large quantity of TNT he had stored in the shed. He wanted to clear his back field of rocks and half buried boulders, in order to expand the farm’s crop-growing area.

He was sure the craft came down on three legs, but he couldn’t remember how high off the ground it made the whole thing. He needed to know whether there’d be room under there to pack the explosives. Looking down, he couldn’t tell. He slowly made his way downstairs to get an idea of how much room he’d have. He was happy with what he saw.

Back upstairs, he dressed in the darkest clothes he could find. Then, leaving the farmhouse as silently as possible, through the back door, he made his way to the shed. It was fortunate that there was enough moonlight for him to see what he was doing without having to switch any lights on. Leaving the main door open, he could see the tarpaulin that covered the six crates he’d had delivered a few months back. Each one was stacked with blocks of the powerful explosive. It was going to take him a long time to pack the blocks under the ship, but he was determined to use the lot!

After just under three hours of carrying sacks of blocks around to the back of the ship, opposite the section that drops down to form a ramp, the job was finished. He had created a large, tightly packed pile beneath the belly of the saucer. He knew enough about handling the stuff to prepare a fuse that would give him around five minutes to leave the area. He was aware of the possibility that the farmhouse could be part of the damage it could cause. As he now lived alone, he was willing to take the risk and rebuild, if he had to.

As he put a match to the slow-burning fuse he had made, he considered how fortunate he was to get a second chance to prove to others that he had been telling the truth all along. Once it was fizzing, he began to run at a steady pace towards the town.

The explosion was tremendous. It lit up the sky with a gigantic orange plume. He sat on the trunk of a fallen tree, on the edge of his property, taking in the sight for a while before he heard the sirens.

As day broke, he looked around at the little that was left of the house. The place was crawling with police and fire vehicles. Ambulances came and left, there being no injuries. Special crime scene personnel, forensic teams and other specialists picked their way through debris during the day.

In the days that followed, the international press was full of stories about the event and how, among other things, pieces of unidentifiable metal and strange, unrecognisable body parts where being studied by medical teams and physicists around the world.

Now, in the town’s public house, telling his story over and over, with pints paid for by others, who want to hear, there is no ridicule.

Her weekly shopping always includes a special trip to the butcher’s shop.

It’s always the last thing she does when her main shopping’s done. It’s an extra drive from the shopping centre to the other side of town and the traffic is always heavy. It’s always difficult to find parking when she gets there. The shop is very popular and there’s always a queue. She always buys one small, meat pie. This weekly ritual always adds at least half an hour to the time it takes her to shop. It’s always the same, regular guy that serves the customers. When she gets to the counter, he always gives her a wink and a heart stopping smile.

Her flatmate always gets the pie, but understands why.

She’s a vegetarian… but love always conquers all.

It was a wonderful place for a honeymoon.

He had booked a room in a quaint old public house, just a short drive from the coast, in the tiny village of Brightlington. Each night they would drive along the seaside promenade, each time choosing a different place to eat. He particularly remembered their final night there, feeling quite sad that they had to move on. It was a warm evening and they had strolled along the promenade for a while before stopping to watch the moon create silver sparkles over the ocean. At that moment she had told him how much she loved him and how she wanted to stay by his side forever.

Now, forty-three years later, in Broxtonly, a town not so very far away, they had been late-night shopping. The rain had been pounding down relentlessly and they were having trouble buying the things they need. She was becoming increasingly frustrated. He had been told several times that he was more of a hindrance than a help!

Finally, having groceries on her list, she suggested that he wait outside the shop while she went in; she could do better on her own.

He stood beneath the leaky awning, moving around to avoid the rain.

His thoughts went back to Brightlington.

The man across the street at number seventeen had never been at all friendly.

The word was that his domestic life wasn’t any better. He and his wife, both in their late forties, lived alone. They had never started a family. He was difficult to live with. Nevertheless, her world is made bearable by Toby. This loverly creature was a cat. He was nothing more than a domestic short-haired black and white cat, but he made her life at number seventeen more tolerable on a daily basis. That was the case, until the night that he came home in a really foul mood, saying he had a particularly bad day. As he came through the front door, thinking he wasn’t seen, he kicked the cat out of the way.

That evening he made his way to the local pub, where he spent his time shelling out money and getting well and truly drunk. Finally, staggering out, he was at his car when it happened. In the poorly lit carpark, a figure ran up behind him and cracked him on his head with something hard. He went down and seemed to black out, while the attacker found his wallet and removed what remaining money he could find. Then, looking around briefly before kicking his victim in the stomach, he ran off into the night. It was several minutes before another patron, returning to his car, found him and called for an ambulance.

What followed was a worrying period of several long days in a hospital bed, in some sort of coma, with her visiting every day. That was what could be seen. What was not evident was the dreams that plagued him while lying there. These were strange and truly powerful fantasies that had a profound effect on him.

Eventually, he recovered, with little to show that the incident had ever happened. He was told to rest and take it easy for the next few days. So, that’s what he did.

On his return home, the first thing he did was to settle in his favourite arm chair in the lounge, while his wife dutifully went into the kitchen to make him a cup of tea. When she returned, she found him sitting, with Toby on his lap.

He was smiling at her, while stroking him!

The boy is sitting with his eyes closed.

This is not the room where he sits waiting for the dentist’s nice receptionist to tell him he can go through now. This is not the shed where he sometimes looks on while his uncle carries out repairs on his car. This is not the room at school that has a cupboard full of art equipment for him and his class to learn about drawing and painting. This is not the room in the town’s gallery, where rows of his favourite artworks are hung around the walls with their bright colours. This is not the room at the hospital where you go and sit in a chair, while a nurse uses a syringe to take blood so that it can be tested.

Nor is it the booth that you sit in and pose while a camera takes photos of you and your friends. This is not the room at the top of the house his parents call the loft, where old things that they don’t want to throw away are kept. This is not the cubicle that he uses to dry himself and get dressed after a swim in the local indoor swimming pool. This is not the room where his auntie does her sowing and dressmaking, using her sowing machine and a tailor’s dummy.

He opens his eyes.

No.

This is his treehouse, where he can sit comfortably and feel perfectly safe.

This is where he can imagine all sorts of places…

Because he can!

The two organ-grinders and their monkeys operated at the opposite ends of the town.

As it happens, these men were twins. As far back as their schooldays, they always had two things in common. The first was their delight in fooling their teachers, and occasionally their parents, by swapping places; one pretending to be the other. Secondly, they both shared the unusual desire to become organ-grinders. Now, as men, both following their boyhood dreams, they give their street-side performances, one in the south, the other in the north. This they did in order to avoid poaching each other’s customers. It was not a lucrative business, but they were both happy with the arrangement and would regularly catch up at a café in the centre of town.

When this happened, they would secure their organs and bring their monkeys with them. The café owner was happy to have their animals sit quietly under their table so that other patrons were not inconvenienced. There, they would discuss their businesses and find out how they were doing.

The monkeys themselves were, in fact, twins. When the men had chosen them for their businesses, they were delighted to find that this was the case. For that reason, they had given each animal a short, yet similar name. As twins, the animals, like their owners, were hard to tell apart. It was only their coloured collars that indicated which was which. However, monkeys being monkeys, were themselves quite mischievous and would often swap their collars beneath the table!

It was while they were at one of these meetings that they began discussing the possibility of forming a partnership. They talked about having a legal contract drawn up, basically for tax purposes. They agreed that they would be better off if they were to form a business with them being equal partners. Each man would be his own business manager, with their monkeys listed as their assistants.

That being the plan, a highly respected and extremely professional business lawyer was chosen and contacted. Explaining their situation, it was confirmed that the two men, along with their animals, would attend the lawyer’s office on an agreed date and time to have the business contract drawn up.

It was there, in his office, at the point where the legal expert was identifying each manager and each assistant to be listed in the contract he was preparing, that something really awkward came up…