Author: Alexander Fawn

Little is known about it, naturally.

It has to be said that the discovery of this phenomenon is extremely unlikely. It is a shadow. A shadow, and only a shadow. It is, in fact, a singular and standalone entity. It is the only one of its kind. It can shapeshift and become very large or amazingly small. It travels from place to place, from country to country. It moves about this planet at will, each time in just the smallest fraction of a moment. It is not cast by anyone or thing, but is a standalone shadow. It can mingle with others, or boldly appear without warning. Most of the time it rests by casting itself onto any common or garden shadow. This renders it entirely invisible. Its very existence would be virtually impossible to prove. It has no purpose beyond simply doing what it does.

On the extremely rare occasions that it is seen for what it is, it is quite naturally dismissed without further thought, as being quite impossible.

Little is known about it, naturally.

The man from Venice died not knowing that he would give them a life of pure joy.

They met by chance at the concert hall. After the performance they sat in the cafeteria discussing their passion for the music until they were asked to leave. That’s how it all started. They both lived some distance from the city where they met, but they lived not too far apart and both worked in the same town. Several dates later, they learnt more about one another’s likes and disliked apart from music. They soon found out that she likes chips, he prefers mashed potatoes. He’s outgoing, she’s reserved. She likes wine, he likes lager. He likes crime, she likes comedy. She’s a vegetarian, he’s an omnivore. He follows the cricket, she follows basketball. She likes sweet, he likes savoury. He is punctual, she’s not. She’s a Christian, he’s an atheist. He’s a socialiser, she’s a wallflower. She’s an early bird; he’s a night owl. He’s an extrovert, she’s an introvert. She prefers spring, he, autumn. He likes curries, she doesn’t.

Despite any of this they went on to be happily married.

Little did the Venetian baroque composer from three centuries back know that he could bring such a couple together.

Through it all, it was their shared love of Albinoni that saw them through…

He didn’t know her very well.

They had met again recently at a friend’s birthday party. They had only chatted briefly, because she was there with her new boyfriend and she seemed to only have eyes for him. There was music going all through the evening and they danced together just about the whole time. She was obviously madly in love with the guy, or was she drunk? Either way, he got the impression that her feelings for him were a little over the top; maybe a touch too intense. Despite these negative considerations, he thought she was nice enough and hoped things worked out for them.

He was taken by surprise, just a couple of days later, when he received a late-night call from her. He recognised her voice straight away, although her speech was slurred, giving him the impression that she’d been drinking.

She started with, “Sorry about the…” A brief silence was followed by a burp.

“Lateness?” he suggested.

“Right, lateness.” She blew her nose. “Sorry.” she repeated, and seemed to sober up slightly. “I think I need some help.”

“Go on.”

“It’s him.”

“Him?”

“Yes, him. He was just like all the others!”

“He was?”

“Yes, he was, just like all the others, so he had to go.”

“You brushed him off, then.”

“No. He had to go. That’s why I’m calling you. He’s wrapped in an old blanket, and I’ve found the ideal spot for him in the garden.”

A long pause. “And you’re calling me, why?”

“I’ve been searching through the shed…”

“And?”

Another long pause, then. “You seemed nice, and it might be a bit of a liberty, but… I need a shovel.”

The requirement to arrive early became clear when he was given the form.

He began by looking through all eighteen pages. Reading the headings given on each page gave some idea of how exclusive, the venue really was. The form was an application to join ‘The Club’. As a prospective candidate, he knew that those who apply for membership are subjected to a most rigorous set of… well, the man on the phone called them bullet points. When he asked what sort of bullet points, he didn’t get much of an answer, but was told that it was an extremely long list. Asking to see the list made the man at reception go extremely pale. He glanced around, then said that they don’t actually hand these things out. He was told that all he needed to know was that every check box has to be ticked, to become a member.

He took a pen from the pot on the counter and sat down with the form. The pen had an intricate design and the club’s tiny inscription on it. It looked very expensive. Not many people would have one of these, he thought.

Fifty minutes later, having answered every question in such a way that he could be assured of acquiring membership, he handed the form in.

He was told, as a result of their thorough vetting system, it could take anything up to a year!

Nodding, he said he thought that he was a perfect candidate, but was told that it was far more than just being perfect. He was reminded once more that they were exclusive.

He kept the pen, just in case…

He was extremely annoyed about how nothing really lasts.

Whereas most people grew used to the idea that so many things in life are transitory, he never did. He sat reflecting on the fact that you can make yourself a delicious cheese and pickle roll, next time, the bread’s got spots of mould. One minute you can be driving through the countryside on a warm sunny day, really enjoying it, and moments later, you get a puncture. One minute you have perfect health, next, you get haemorrhoids.

The capricious nature of life itself was very annoying.

The fact that things were so endlessly volatile was bad enough, but worse was the fact that, as far as he knew, there was no one he could complain to!

She is in the kitchen making her first cup of coffee.

She switches the kettle on. She picks up her spoon and considers it for a moment, before she begins. To the unwanted observer, to watch her, with her array of imaginary bowls, yet holding a substantial teaspoon… it would make no sense at all. To see her tap the side of her real coffee mug would probably leave the onlooker wondering. Only she knows this is the start of her early morning ritual, something she has done within the privacy of her home ever since, and knowing that what she is about to do is for her alone.

Looking down at the row of illusory containers, she starts from the left, dipping her spoon in. Out comes a moderately heaped spoonful of patience. This is tipped into her mug. Next, a similar quantity of humility is taken from the following bowl. In it goes. In the same fashion, she moves along from bowl to bowl. Next comes forgivingness, then honesty, followed by selflessness, fairness, kindness, empathy and the last, integrity. These being her chosen ingredients.

Meanwhile, the kettle has come to the boil.

Coffee and sugar are added to her mug, then hot water and milk; all are stirred in together. She knows all that the mug contains.

She drinks slowly.

More and more, this in-between-lives thingy was being seen as a lot of mucking about.

Basically, those that dwelt in the in-between place were getting sick and tired of all the complaining. So, after a hell of a lot of squabbling, they decided to create a gateway. At least, they would give it a go. It meant that there needed to be an enormous amount of restructuring. At first, the elite committee made up of those chosen to oversee the changes required, were completely overwhelmed by the number of business models being presented. Of course, all of this remodelling was going on with those still alive knowing nothing about it. Anyway, after a great deal of behind-the-scenes work, consisting largely of discarding the myriad of ‘out there’ ideas that came their way, the work was carried out without it interrupting the natural everyday process of rebirth, resulting in the gateway being put in place. In place, but not yet open.

It would be a trial.

The gateway itself would admit allcomers. Most of the stipulated rules have been agreed to, but not all. It can be said, generally, that the whole business will be speeded up beyond recognition. Of course, this will only apply to the very few that are able to remember the last time.

There will be no restrictions with regards to religion, come one come all. The gender spectrum will be fully catered for. However, the same rules about no discussion regarding sex, politics or religion still apply. Good and bad alike will get pushed through. Any morality issues will be dealt with by others; this is a work in progress. Medications can be brought through by those that feel it necessary. Tax records are no longer inspected. Currently pets are not allowed, but this may change. There will no longer be an enquiry counter. In fact, questions are prohibited.

This is to mention only a few.

There will be no prophesy or prophet associated with the changes.

All efforts are being made to open the gateway in the near future. To quote what the Committee Head said recently. “It will only happen when we are good and ready.”

These last couple of weeks had been the loneliest she had ever experienced.

He often had to go away on business, she knew that, but never this long. Every time she picked up the phone and dialled, he had asked her to leave a message. It was not like him; not at all. She had been phoning him regularly for nearly two weeks without response. He was almost always available around lunch time and early evening. That’s when she would make herself comfortable in her usual spot, in the front lounge by the window looking out into the street, each time with a secret hope that she’d see him pull in.

Should she be contacting the police?

It happened on the afternoon she’d been poking around looking for something. That’s when she found his phone. At first, she was confused. Then, with a great rush, it all came crashing in on her!

That’s when she found all twenty-seven missed calls, since the funeral.

The Human Resources Manager was willing to give the boy a chance.

It was known that the boy came from a rough family with criminal connections. Despite this, the fact that the eighteen-year-old was tall and well-built made him ideal for the advertised position. It was work that involved a lot of heavy labour around the chemical plant. However, it was only his second day of employment that he was found to be rummaging through the drawers of this same manager’s desk. Needless to say, he was fired on the spot. That’s when things got ugly. An argument ensued with the boy producing a flick knife. Waving this around, he managed to send an instant call for help to his father. When the big brute of a man arrived, matters got worse.

With dire threats being made to the manager and his family, the commotion in the office grew louder. It was at this point that the factory’s security officer cautiously entered the office. Summing up the situation quickly, with his Taser set on maximum, he dropped both the father and son, in that order. The boy went down, falling on his knife, while the big man staggered momentarily before. As it happened, his head struck the corner of the manager’s desk as he fell. The blow was fatal.

With two dead bodies now lying on the floor of the manager’s office, the said manager slowly began to go to pieces. On the other hand, the security officer, being far more disciplined and well-trained in the performance of his duties, took control of the situation. It was agreed that the security man would return after hours and ‘tidy up’, while the manager took the rest of the day off.

At around two in the morning, the two bodies were placed in the bucket of a mini loader and transported to a part of the building where a huge vat of hydrochloric acid was kept. Wearing a gas mask and protection gloves, the massive lid of the vat was raised and the machine’s load was carefully dropped in.

In the morning, he would need to remind the manager to make the appropriate adjustments to his staff employment records. From his own point of view, all in all, knowing that their disappearance would be an entirely acceptable loss to the community, he went home to get a good night’s sleep.

He wanted to write a story about something completely different.

He needed to break away from the mainstream approach to writing short fiction stories. He’d been staring at the screen for some time and was getting nowhere. Seeing that it was coming up to lunchtime, he would make a sandwich and go to the local park to eat it. He had often found that doing this allowed him to think more clearly about a story he was trying to put together. He felt that he stood a better chance of coming up with something completely out of the ordinary if he made his way there and just sat thinking for a while.

As he entered the park, heading for his usual seat, he saw it was occupied. A strange looking character was sitting there with an animal of some kind on his lap. Drawing closer, he could see it was a man with his face painted to look like a sad clown. It reminded him of a circus poster he’d seen in town.

Anyway, the man with a clown face was holding a monkey. Coming closer still, he saw that the man was actually crying!

Just then, an elderly couple walked past the bench. As they did, the monkey reared up and snarled at them, baring its teeth. The woman screamed and they hurried on. This was followed by a loud whistle. It was coming from the park attendant, who came running to find out what was going on.

This won’t do, he thought, too much commotion going on here. I need to be able to think.

He took his lunch home.

Back in front of his laptop, he went back to coming up with something completely different to write about.