Author: Alexander Fawn

The man with the small hobby farm was clearing some of his land.

He burned most of what he’d cleared, but made a stack of logs. He decided that there may be those who could use them, as the recent weather had been particularly cold. He put a small pile at the front with a sign saying they were for sale. He wouldn’t charge much. In rural communities it was generally accepted that they all look after one another in times of need. However, looking out of his front window the next morning, he saw what was obviously the exception to this unspoken understanding. It was the miserly old codger from a little further up the lane. He was loading the pieces into the back of his old utility vehicle as silently as he could. With that, he drove away quietly, with obviously no intention to pay for them!

Although the man was his neighbour, he had never liked him. He was rude and never had a kind word to say about anything or anybody. He decided that he would gather up more logs later that day and replace them, with the idea that he’d keep a sharp look out.

Sure enough, early the next morning the battered truck was there again. Like the day before, the timber was taken with no intention of paying for it. Watching this, the man began to form an idea. Being something of a keen carpenter he selected a suitable piece from his stack and took it to his workshop. There, he found the unused stick of dynamite, left over from a time when he needed to dislodge large boulders on his property. He carefully measured its diameter, then drilled into the end of the log. When the stick was firmly in place, he made a wooden plug and glued it in. Sanding the end made what he’d done invisible. Then, later that day, it went out the front with other pieces, to form another small pile.

It had been the following morning, after he had looked on, witnessing the prepared pile being stolen, yet again, that he had a troubling thought. It occurred to him that the rotter might be just brazen enough to sell the logs on to one of the good folks that live in the village. What if this rogue sold the wood to one of his best friends who would have no idea what danger they were in.

Each day that passed had him thinking about how he could put the matter right, without exposing the nature of what he had done; each time without success.

However, it was a few sleepless nights later that he heard the explosion coming from just a short distance away.

With an evil grin, he relaxed.

The man heard the siren as he made his way across the field.

He was on his way to talk to his neighbour who owned the farm property next to his own. He’d heard that the owner planned to build an artificial lake on his farm. He was curious and wanted to know how big it would be, how deep, where on the property it would be located and mainly, why was he going to the trouble and expense of creating a manmade lake in the first place. As neighbours they had always got on.

As he approached, he smiled and put his hands over his ears, as if to stop the sound.

The farmer gave a warm greeting. “I know, but I had to switch that on,” he said. “We’ve got a mob of wild donkeys in the area. You know how much damage they can do.”

The visitor nodded and said, “Ass alarm. Ooh! A lake, umm…”

The farmer looked surprised. “You speak Urdu?”

The story goes that he was woken in the early hours by angry voices

He couldn’t believe that it was happening. It seemed to be so out of place. It was definitely some kind of argument. It was a woman’s voice that dominated. She was telling someone that it was so unfair that her husband should be taken from her, at his age. She was saying something about their recent marriage and how this wasn’t the way it should go. He could just make out the time on the ward’s clock. Surely, three in the morning was not the time for a doctor’s visit, although that was what it sounded like. The doctor, if that’s who he was, spoke quietly about what needed to happen, but she wasn’t going to have a bar of it, and told him so. Then, quite suddenly, it fell silent. He lifted his head to see the man leave. In the poor light he could just make out a tall figure, dressed in black, with a hood!

The following day, the medical staff were amazed to find that the brain tumour was no longer there. He was discharged during the afternoon and a jubilant wife was called and told she could come to the hospital to take him home.

It was during that journey that a heavy vehicle shot through a red light and crushed the car they were in.

When the local paper carried the sad story of the recently married, young couple dying that way, his wife showed him the article. He hardly ever read the newspaper, but this was different. Knowing that her husband had been in the hospital at around the same time as the dead husband, she thought he should see it. She left him reading it.

A few minutes later, returning the paper to his wife, he agreed that it was a very sad business.

That was all he said.

For all intents and purposes, the girl who lives at number fourteen is perfectly ordinary.

She is just a seventeen-year-old, who lives at home with her parents. They are both working. She lives in an ordinary house near to a town. It’s there that she works in an office as an admin support clerk in reception. She likes her work and travels there and back by bus. She has a boyfriend that she really likes. That day, she left the office right on time and caught the early bus. At home she got ready to go out. Travelling back into town by bus, she met her boyfriend in the foyer of the town cinema. After the movie they went to a favourite café, where they drank coffee and talked about the film. From there, he drove her home. That night, she was full of joy when she switched her bedside light out and settle down to sleep…

On the following morning, she woke up as a sixty-two-year-old widow, with a small dog.

She had been retired for several years and was living in a bungalow in another town. After breakfast, she got ready to walk her dog to a nearby park before going on to a convenient store where she would buy a paper, then return home.

It should be pointed out that this second persona, along with all of her friends, neighbours and relatives have absolutely no cognisance or memory of the first.

Whereas, you would think that most sensible people would consider that this entire event was, to say the very least, mindbogglingly remarkable, it is not.

Unbeknown to almost everyone, this sort of thing is happening all the time…

She was alone.

It was all behind her now. The freedom she had gained made her heady. She was standing near the edge. The lofty height of the cliffs along this part of the shoreline allowed visitors to look out across the great ocean. In the moonlight it was an enormous expanse of glistening water that went on forever. Gazing out, she became aware of another solitary figure making its way along the track that led to where she stood. She watched as the woman approached, occasionally looking out at the view.

The newcomer eventually stopped a short distance away. She called out, “Ah! A kindred spirit, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Yes,” replied the first, “I suppose we are.”

The other moved closer. “When did you jump?” she asked.

She was working late when her phone went off.

It was a short text message, saying, ‘You are about to die.’ She hated these pranks that the people she worked with seemed to find so amusing. There was definitely a culture in the place that meant that everyone there could spend their time dreaming up practical jokes. She looked around. She appeared to be the only one there. She had to be the last person in the office. As the company occupied the entire fifth floor in the building, she got up and walked around. She soon returned, having discovered that the whole floor was in total darkness. Only her room had a light on.

She wondered whether some silly fool was hiding out of sight, and enjoying the fact that she was being given a fright. It wasn’t very likely, but she called out, anyway. “I want you to know that I don’t find this at all funny!”

Her phone pinged again.

It read, ‘No. You’re quite right, a sudden death is rarely funny.’

The old guy at the saloon was squinting at the small white label on his crisps packet.

The fellow next to him could see the perplexed look on his face. Knowing a great deal about such things, he explained what it was and why it was on the packet. He said that what he was looking at was a UPC number, which stands for Universal Product Code. He told the man that it is referred to as the GTIN, that being the Global Trade Item Number. He said the number is twelve digits long and is assigned to an item, which makes it a completely unique product. He said these markings can be read by an electronic reader. He said this captures and translates the information by using a computer.

His student, although getting more and more drunk, seemed to be taking it all in.

So, he went on to say that these were first created for grocery shops. It made the checkout process a lot faster. Not only that, the system allowed shop keepers to keep track of their inventory.

With a smile, he said, “As you probably know, because this was so successful, it is now used for just about all other retail products.”

The other, blinked a few times.

The man raised his eyebrows. “Do you understand now?

“What?

“Do you get it, what the barcode is?”

“Sure.” He burped. “Last orders are called at 11:30.”

This was one of the writer’s favourite places.

He was sitting in the back corner of the café, watching both the people passing back and forth along the street outside and the customers coming in, sitting, and then leaving. On this particular day he was musing on the human senses when he saw the woman struggling with a pusher, getting it over the step, as she entered. She ordered a coffee. He couldn’t help noticing a quick exchange between the man operating the coffee machine and the woman. It was one of some sort of secret familiarity. It was then that he saw the jagged scar that ran down the side of the man’s neck. She made her way to a table, awkwardly navigating the pusher as she went. Passing his own table, he glimpsed a faint white line across her finger, where a ring had been. He noted that the man making coffees was watching her every move.

He sat listening to the sounds of the barista machine making its hissing and gurgling sounds as more drinks were prepared, together with the intermittent cries of the child in the stroller. Outside, street noises continued in the background. He touched the side of his cup; it was still nice and hot. As he lifted it, he smelt the beautiful aroma of the cappuccino. The taste of it had always been his favourite.

As he drank, his sixth sense told him that today was going to be a productive day at the keyboard.

The man that lived in 17a kept very much to himself.

He only ever nodded to any of the other people who lived in the apartment block. It was rumoured that he could be deaf, or even dumb. Nobody really knew. In the main, he was ignored, and to a degree, avoided. The truth of the matter was that he disliked royal persons, politicians, soldiers, religious callers, religious people, taxi drivers, gamblers, protest marchers, celebrities, people with dogs that barked at night, people with mirrored sunglasses, men with beards, women with large earrings, people with t-shirts that advertised things and people who bought and wore new jeans with holes already in them… just to name some.

In fact, in a moment of unusually clear thinking, with an undertone of self-analysis, he asked himself whether he actually liked anybody?

Nobody came to mind.

He was sitting on a comfortable chair in a small room.

He was holding a ticket. He had no idea how he came by it or what it meant. He wasn’t at all sure where he was. Other people were seated around the room; about a dozen or so. Men and women, all late in life, like him. He looked around, although there was little to see, just bare walls painted in a light grey. Nothing hung on them; no pictures, no certificates, no information boards, no clock. There were strip lights on the ceiling, but no windows. It was like a waiting room, but without it letting you know that’s what it was. In one corner, a door, and in the diagonally opposite corner, quite close to him, what looked like an elderly attendant. He was wearing the sort of uniform you would see in an art gallery, by such people. He was in a dark blue suit with a peaked cap. There was no sign of any insignia.

He was staring at him, when the man with a cap turned his head and smiled.

Getting up, he walked over to him and asked a question.

The attendant beamed up at him. Standing up himself and rolling his shoulders, he took a deep breath and said, “You want to know where you are. I can understand that. I must say, it is always most gratifying to be asked questions. Not many do. Most of them that arrive here are in a daze. I can be on duty here for two or three weeks, day after day, and not get approached by any of our clientele.” He sighed. “I can’t tell you much, I’m afraid. None of us can.”

The newcomer smiled while looking back around. “I just don’t know where I am. Sounds silly doesn’t it?”

“Not at all! A perfectly reasonable question. You’re in a very large, multi-storeyed building, just one of many. On this floor there are dozens of rooms like this. Each dealing with different groups of people. This one is identified by the ticket you’re holding.”

Looking down at the ticket didn’t help, just a string of alphanumeric characters.

“That’ll probably be meaningless to you. When they are ready for you it’ll glow. Don’t worry about it.”

Looking around again, the other grimaced and said, “Something tells me I should be worried about something, but I don’t know what!” He sniffed. “I mean, why are all these people being scrutinised? Have they done something wrong?”

“Look. You obviously want to know what’s going on. You could call it examination, analysis, and certainly judgment, if you like, but it’s definitely scrutiny. It’s very thorough, I can tell you that. Anyway, only those through the door over there, know what’s going on.” The attendant grinned. “The simple answer to your question is yes. They all…I should say, you all have something to hide. Things done in the past. Bad things, that is. Really bad things, mostly. As I… we, understand it, these wrongdoings have remained hidden.”

“Such as?”

“You know, money laundering, drug dealing, murder, genocide, but mostly murder, I think.”

“Really?”

“Oh. Yes. They are things that never get found out about by other people, but the scrutineers get to the bottom of it…”

Suddenly he sits up in bed, pauses momentarily with his eyelids flickering, then slumps back onto the pillow, releasing his last breath. The machine starts to give out a continual buzz.

“No ID on this one,” says the nurse. “Have to book him as a John Doe.”

Back in the room, his ticket glowed.