Author: Alexander Fawn

It was the last thing he had expected.

He’d been walking through town late at night when he was accosted. He did wonder about the large, rough looking individual as he approached from the opposite direction. It was as they passed that he felt the sudden grip on his collar that swung him into the recess of a shop’s doorway. His assailant, obviously a mugger, held something that felt like a knife to his throat. For a moment or two they stood face to face in the poor light. After the mugger checked the street, in a gruff voice, he said, “I’ll take your wallet, if you don’t mind.”

The man whimpered. “I don’t carry one anymore; honestly, not since my wife died.”

The oaf frowned. “Why not?”

With a contorted face, the man said, “Well, things have gone downhill for me since then. I suffered depression for a while and took time off work.” His eyes watered. “That went badly because the boss eventually let me go. I haven’t been able to find work since. Not only that, my landlord has given me a week to vacate and…” He began to sob.

Taking the plastic comb from the man’s throat, the mugger held up his hand. “OK. I get it.” With a sigh, he took a five dollar note from his own wallet and handed it over, saying, “Now, push off, will you?” With that, he pushed him back out into the street.

The man stood for a moment, nodding gratefully. He said, “Thank you, so much,” and slowly walked away.

Turning into the next street, he felt the satisfying bulge in his back pocket.

He had been suffering from the growing amount of fake news for some time.

He simply couldn’t tell what news was fake and what news was real. The proliferation of so many media sources coming up with false or misleading information was causing him to suffer mentally. He felt that trusting these false stories could easily lead people, including himself, to make decisions that could cause harm. He was aware that both his physical and mental health had been going downhill for some time. It was because of all of this that he walked halfway across a very long and extremely high bridge. Once there, he climbed over the metal rail that was a safety barrier and stood on the narrow concrete ledge, looking down into the deepest part of the river. He began to scream about how he couldn’t take it anymore.

Cars began to stop, with people getting out to find out what he was saying. Before too long, the centre of the bridge was clogged with cars and people swarming around. They were using their mobile phones to tell others about what was going on. For some time, they were gathered there, listening to him rant and rave about fake news and what it had done to him.

Somewhere in the crowd a man called out something about the truth. This caught his attention and he quickly stopped screaming his message of despair. He turned his head enough to see the man push his way through the crowd and come right up to the barrier.

The crowd went quiet while the stranger spoke softly to the man on the ledge, who suddenly raised his voice, asking, “Hang on, did you say you were a reporter?”

“Yes,” came the reply, “I’ll tell your story for you.”

He jumped

If there was one thing he really enjoyed, it was being on a rowdy protest march.

It had been a good year for them. There were rallies about school classroom numbers, climate change, euthanasia, abortion, student fees, gay rights, domestic violence, same sex marriage, greenhouse emissions and saving the forests. He travelled around the country to every rally or march that was taking place. One way or the other, he had strong views about all of them. There had been peace rallies, about the use of nuclear energy, men’s rights, women’s rights and last but not least, rallies concerning the ever-worsening problem of too many people entering the country. That day’s protest march would most definitely have to be about his most favourite gripe. It was calling on politicians to realize that immigration numbers were out of control. In his view, far too many foreigners were coming into the country with the government doing nothing about it.

It had to be said that protesting about absolutely anything at all was what he enjoyed most. It had been a really good protest march, going right up to the building where the politicians made the laws about letting people in. It had been a fairly full-on affair this time, with a great deal of shouting and screaming. He thought some of the racial slurs were really good. There were lots of banners and only a couple of minor fights breaking out. He had always avoided these whenever possible on the basis that it might stop him from attending other protests he had plans for; those on his circuit around the country.

That night, he went to bed deliriously happy.

It was probably a good thing that he had no idea that when he woke up in the morning, he’d be coloured…

She works at a small desk in the corner of the office, but doesn’t spend much time there.

She carries out a number of duties around the place. Duties that have never been clearly defined or written down anywhere. These take up most of her day. She sorts and distributes the mail every morning. She files away any documents, as needed. She restocks the stationary cupboard and keeps it tidy. Sometimes she makes cups of coffee to order and delivers them to the managers’ desks. She nearly always makes drinks for the visitors, when requested. She mops the floor, whenever there’s a spill. On occasion, she collects items from the nearby drycleaners. You would have to say that she spends most of her time running errands. All of the above would definitely make her a gofer.

She arrived there straight from school, three years back. She is diligent and careful with what she does, but occasionally makes mistakes, minor ones. She dresses neatly and always arrives on time in the morning and stays a little late, if needed. She always uses the bus. It is generally known that she has a place to go to; a house that she shares with others. She is friendly enough, but tends to keep very much to herself.

People often say how indispensable she is.

What she does outside of working hours is completely unknown.

Truth be told, this is how she likes it…

He felt that the trust had gone out of their relationship.

More and more, he felt that she was hiding something from him. Could it be that she was two-timing on him? He didn’t think so. He had made it very clear that if something like that ever happened, he would kill her. He knew that he could be a little rough with her; he even knocked her around occasionally. Nothing serious, just the odd thump when she deserved it. No, it couldn’t be that. She wouldn’t dare! However, there was something going on. He had noticed that from time to time she’d lock herself in the bathroom. He would hear a muffled one-way conversation going on. It might be quite innocent. She could be planning some surprise for him, or even arranging to buy him a present. He would certainly appreciate that. He had always liked surprises.

If this was the case, two could play at being sneaky. He bought a small, long life recording device. He hid it in the bathroom where she’d never find it. He would retrieve it late at night and fast-wind to see whether he hit any recordings.

It was on the third night that he got a hit.

She was saying, “Relax. He has no idea.” There was a long pause. She went on. “No problem there, he’s so boringly predictable. He eats and drinks the same things for breakfast, every morning. I’ve taken other precautions as well. He may be dead already!” At this point, he heard her chuckle. She went on again. “We have to be careful, though, I’ve spread the stuff all over the place. The bottle you gave me is just about empty. We’ll need to do a major clean up, before I call for an ambulance. Are you quite sure the stuff you gave me will make it look like a heart attack?” After a pause, “Better go. He’ll be back from the pub soon. I’ll be in touch. Bye.”

He couldn’t believe it! He began thinking about what he might have eaten or drunk during the evening. He was pretty sure there had been nothing, but he knew that he couldn’t be too careful. He crept into the bedroom. She always slept like a log. He opened the wardrobe…

When she woke the next morning, she found that he’d taken all his clothes and his personal stuff. Two suitcases were missing.

She picked up her phone. No need to use the bathroom this time.

“Hi, lover. He’s gone. Worked like a charm on the rotten coward that he is. Come round when you’ve packed. Love you.”

Unknown to others, it always starts the moment he leaves the office.

It begins with turning left or right and using street signs as clues. Most times, he gets it right. He heads for the main street, where he chooses which numbered bus stop to stand at. He goes for a number. It usually pays off, but not every time. The buildings that go by as he sits looking out of the window are familiar, but that is all they are. At the train station, he goes with the crowd. He takes his time, familiarising himself with the layout of platforms, before he decides. The trains that come and go all look much the same, but his selection usually pays off. Now, a different kind of landscape rushes passed. He knows it will take several minutes; an Indeterminate number of minutes. Sometimes, posters along the platform bring brief flashes of recognition. Walking the streets, before finding the one that may be his, can take a while.

He now stands for several minutes, looking across at number ten.

It looks about right, but he can never be completely sure…

He sat peering out of his seventeenth-floor window.

It was a place of inspiration for him. From his twenty-story block he had a clear view of the matching tower opposite. With his favourite, comfy chair drawn up close to the glass he would miss nothing. Daytime viewing could be interesting, but it was now, when all was dark, save for the illuminated windows, that the view provided the best results. With his own room in darkness, visibility was perfect and gave the added advantage of allowing him to watch unseen. Those that dwelled behind their own windows; windows without blinds or curtains, were on parade. They went about their activities oblivious to the writer’s keen scrutiny. Naturally, for the most part their mundane comings and goings were not ideal fodder for a fiction writer. For him, it was only the occasional glimpse of something of note that could be expanded into some new, gripping narrative.

Of course, there was the entertainment aspect of what he did, he couldn’t deny that. After all, he did use the binoculars that sat on a low table beside him. He had wondered, on occasion, whether his nocturnal activity came anywhere close to voyeurism. Since he was the only person who knew about his nightly hobby, other viewpoints simply weren’t available. Regardless of this, any festering concerns he may have had on the subject were abruptly swept away the night his pastime ended. It ended, never again to be a part of his evening viewing… not ever again!

He had been sweeping the building with his powerful binoculars, moving from window to window, when a tall figure walked into one of the rooms. It was only one floor higher than his own, giving him maximum clarity. He dialled to a higher magnification setting. It was not only the height of the man that caught his attention, but the very distinctive clothes he was wearing. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He adjusted the instrument to the highest setting and focussed on the man’s face. It wasn’t possible, was it? His entire body was trembling.

Quickly releasing the cord, the blind came down with a thud.

He stood, looking around the kitchen.

The time will come, he thought, when everything in here will be determined and controlled by AI. Some awfully clever mathematical process that will conclude, then manipulate and put into effect, just what it thinks is needed. Everything being determined by artificial intelligence based on algorithms. Like the timing of the microwave, the speed of the mixer, the eco setting of the dishwasher, the cold of the refrigerator, the boiling speed of the kettle, the browning setting of the toaster, the temperature of the deep fryer, the level of filtration of the water purifier, the coarseness setting of the coffee grinder, the filter setting of the juicer, the heat of the hot plates, the flow of the taps and the brightness of the light…

He wondered, just how much personal input will I have? Again, everything being determined by artificial intelligence based on algorithms.

He sighed and put the kettle on…

The room suddenly fell silent.

The body laid still, very still. Very still, because it was dead. She had been pretty once. Her dead eyes had sparkled once upon a time; before she met him, that is. Before they had made the really bad decision to move into the flat together. They had done a lot of fighting; here in this very room. What had been the argument about? Who knows? Does it really matter? Something about money, of course. They had so often argued about that. His drinking didn’t help. He was looking down at the knife, the one he’d often used to cut up their tomatoes before frying, when the full realisation of what he had done came crashing in on him. Now, questions began to swirl around in his head. So many questions, not least of which was, what he would do next.

You could say that the scene was commonplace. There was a hell of a lot of this sort of thing going on. Going on all around the world, that is.

Nothing really notable happening here, if you think about it.

Let’s face it, it’s just another story.

The boy was thrilled to bits.

He had not long attained his Piano-Forte certificate. He would often spend time on the family piano, just tinkering around, but with the prestige of the certificate now up on the wall, his attitude had become a lot more serious. He would love to compose scores of his own. He had often thought about it, but with a newly acquired qualification, he felt that the sky could well be the limit. He had been working on a piece for a couple of days, when it all came together for him. Going over it one last time, he could hardly wait to call the family to the piano for him to play his very first creation. He was very excited.

They were gathered around and he played his new piece.

When it was finished, they all stood in silence.

His father pulled a face. “Sorry, son, but that’s Peer Gynt Suite number one, by Edvard Grieg.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s from Grieg’s Peer Gynt; it’s a classical piece.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am, sorry, son.”

With that they all scattered to other parts of the house, leaving him alone.

He would have to look it up on the Net.

His dad could be wrong…