Author: Alexander Fawn

They were clearing the site when they found it.
It was around the size of a regular soup can. One end of the cylinder was flat and it was rounded at the other. There was a definite recess just below the dome, as though the end would unscrew, but it wouldn’t budge. One of the workmen suggested that it might be a piece of military ordnance. A less informed worker asked what that was. On being told that it may be some kind of unexploded bomb they stopped trying to open it. The entire site was cleared very quickly and the police called to report the find. Not long after this, the bomb squad arrived. They soon determined that it was not an explosives device, but took it away to be looked at more carefully.

The first thing they tried to do was open it. All attempts failed at first and it was only when they clamped the body and used a heavy duty adjustable wrench that the cap unscrewed. The container turned out to be hollow, save for a small, folded piece of what looked like paper. It was made of a thick material that was difficult to open. On it were printed several weird characters. After a number of people had looked at the inscription without recognising their origin, the whole thing was packed up and shipped to a government test laboratory for analysis.
They tried to keep it quiet, but somehow the press got hold of it. Nothing like a bit of mystery to sell newspapers. Theories were being offered left right and centre; everything from secret society doings from the middle-ages to a message planted by aliens.
Meanwhile, back in the government building, after several days of head-scratching, an expert panel, consisting of a group of the world’s most eminent hieroglyphologists gathered to decipher the strange symbols. The outcome of this was that these symbols were not something that had ever been seen before.
It was at this point, when it was decided that the whole thing was unfathomable and would have to remain a complete mystery, that the specialist that headed up the investigation was heard to mumble, “Wait a minute, I have an idea…”

You could say that he was the town’s resident graffiti artist.
He daubed his colourful art works all over the place. Some of his pieces were very nicely done and many thought his presentations should be left where they were. To this degree the community showed a certain amount of tolerance every time a new graphic display appeared. Unfortunately, the day came when this budding illustrator went just that tiny bit too far. There are boundaries that should never be crossed. He overstepped the mark the day he embellished the wizard’s wall. It was a large, yellow smiley face. Two big eyes and a wide happy mouth. It was not clear what made him do it. This may never be known. The wizard, being a wizard, only had to pass his hand slowly across the painted sign to instantly learn the identity of the perpetrator. He took particular exception to the image in question on account of the fact that he happened to be an exceptionally serious wizard.

The upshot of it all being that the lad was made to clean the door thoroughly, and he did. No sign of his handiwork remained. On this point, it should be said that all this happened over a year ago and he hasn’t been seen since.
You really shouldn’t mess with wizards.

He sat staring at the digital clock on his desk.
It was late. He’d been there for an hour, probably longer. He knew it was rather childish, but he sat waiting for it to change; to move inexorably to the witching hour. He held his breath as it reached 11:59. As a kid he’d learnt that at midnight certain things began; all the demons, hobgoblins, ghosts and all kinds of horrible monsters were suddenly active, more powerful… more of a threat to mortals. His grandad had told him about such things. Much to his mother’s annoyance, he would tell tales of strange things occurring at this time. One of his favourites was the story about grandma’s photo.
The way he told it, he had the photo on his bedside table from the time she’d passed away. On this particular night, just before midnight, of course, he was sitting on the edge of his bed when he heard a rattling noise. It was the picture’s frame vibrating. When he looked at her face, she nodded her head slightly and winked! He remembered how the old man would pause after the nodding part, so they could say that she winked together! It was all in good fun really, but mum found it spooky. He sat smiling at the thought of his grandad making the whole thing something you could laugh at. That had probably not been such a bad thing…
Then, after several minutes of reverie, with a silent flicker, the screen changed to 12:00.

She leaned over the metal rail and looked down.
She felt herself shiver as the evening’s chilly wind seemed to blow right through her. She knew why she came here, she had planned it for weeks. This would be her decision, her choice. It was a very long drop from the bridge to the deep water below.

In the growing darkness her actions would go unseen. Tears filled her eyes as she thought about what she was about to do. She hadn’t told anyone about it. Nobody else had any idea about what she had in mind. Especially not him. She had tried so hard, but he made her life a misery. She knew she couldn’t go on. This was the only way. What she was about to do couldn’t be undone.
Finally, she braced herself, took a deep breath and let the engagement ring fall from her hand.

She was a young stenographer working at the courthouse. Her hair was black and she kept it long. She had pale green eyes and a slightly pointed chin. She would occasionally help out at the homeless shelter, as a volunteer. She and friends would often spend an evening at the Pink Parrot club.
This short story is not about her.
He was a junior draftsman in a major home construction company. He had fair hair, blue eyes and a square jaw. Although not tall, he worked out regularly at a gymnasium. He enjoyed building model aircraft from kits. Now and then he would join his friends and call in at the Pink Parrot club.
This short story is not about him.
The night following an evening at the club she found herself with free time between court cases. She tried to remember exactly what the good looking guy that built model planes had said about her hair. Had it been a compliment? Yes, she was now quite sure that it was!

This being the case, this short story is about them…

The detective sat looking over the crime scene photos when he noticed the balls.
It was his case, and the pressure had really been piled on by the head of CID after the fifth man had been found dead in his home. They had all been struck down from behind; all single, in their early to mid-twenties and all with professional, well-paid jobs. This choice of victim was obviously the common factor. There was nothing else to indicate why these particular men had been targeted. The young detective felt a natural bond with the victims, as he himself fell into a similar category of society. Noticing that in two of the photos a small, Multi-coloured ball could be seen near the body. He remembered picking one up at the most recent scene. It was a soft, squeegee ball that people commonly use to relieve stress. He felt sure this would be an important break in the case.

After revisiting the crime scenes, he established that the same ball could be found elsewhere in each of the victims’ homes. He was soon on the phone to local shops and discovered that only one toy shop sold them. At the store, the owner said that he’d received a consignment of boxes, each containing six. He said it had seemed strange at the time, that a tall, heavy-set woman had come in, insisting on buying a full box.
Seeing that the address on the invoice was only a short distance away, on the edge of town, he made his way there. It turned out to be a vacated shop with a notice in the window that directed customers to new premises. Trying the door, he found it unlocked.
Inside, it was almost bare of fittings, with only the original counter left. A small cardboard box sat on the countertop. Looking inside, he found yet another ball, along with a note, saying, ‘I’ve been waiting for you. You complete the set!’
He was reading the note when, from somewhere behind him, he heard a noise…

He looked around the garden, shaking his head.
He had strong feelings about people coming onto the property, without permission, and making a mess of the place. The lawn was a complete disaster. He went around looking for traces of what had been there before. The people who did this obviously had no idea how much work it was going to take to put it all to rights. He could only put it down to ignorance. He was doing this when a head appeared. It was his friend, who had come out to console him. In truth, this self-same thing had happened before, and on a surprisingly regular basis. He knew his friend would need some degree of comforting.
As he approached, he said, “They seemed to have worked quite hard to make the changes, whoever they are. Heavy machinery, I’d say.”

“I know, I heard them,” the other scowled, “we all heard them! There’s no excuse for what they did. They probably know there is very little we can do about it.”
He took one last look around, shaking his head again.
Then, using the only entrance still useable, the two ants went back down to deliver the bad news to others in their colony.

The school had been suffering from an ever increasing rate of dropouts.
This state of affairs was reflected in the marked increase of crime within the local community. The authorities knew that something had to be done. Various strategies had been tried and failed. It was only after a great deal of debate that it was decided they would implement the Purgatory Program. This was a scheme whereby pupils whose behaviour was so bad and virtually uncontrollable and were regularly producing poor test results and were therefor most likely to drop out, were chosen for the program. The selected pupils were then sent straight to hell.

A room at the school was set up for the purpose, and a specialised medical practitioner was engaged to perform the complex medical process, where death is induced for a period of several minutes, followed by a return to life. Those familiar with the procedure regard it as a particularly powerful wakeup treatment. The idea being that what the pupil experiences while down there is so ghastly that on their return they immediately mend their ways.
This program was fully instigated and ran for several days. The results were excellent, with those returning having a completely different attitude regarding their place in the community, and for that matter, the world!
It has to be said that despite the very high success rate, around five percent didn’t return. Seemingly, this small number were quite obediently resigned to remain there.
Furthermore, this in itself was not seen as a problem as it was generally agreed these particular participants were going to end up there anyway.

The bard was intent on capturing the tale he had running through his head.
He had characters racing around franticly in a dream, with the scribe scribbling as fast as he could, to keep up. Dictating the activities of the players in this midsummer’s night story certainly sped up the process of getting it all down on paper. The bard had never been a fast writer. This way, there would be a professionally written play sheet that could be sold at the door for those aficionados that he was sure would be willing to pay at least a halfpenny for each hand-written copy.
Unbeknownst to the pair, the final manuscript contained a major error. Looking back, he could well understand how such a mistake was made. It had been in the early hours when the entire script had been finished. Although the writer had found it hard to understand how the scribe didn’t question why the weaver’s head should be replaced by that of Cassius, it all got missed at the time. The fact that the play made no mention of anybody by that name was something that seemed to have slipped past without notice.
It was not until after the first performance that the error became evident to the two men. As it turned out, the ridiculous notion of the artisan receiving an ass’s head didn’t seem to bother the audience at all. In fact, this surprising twist to the tale definitely increased the comedic nature of the piece.
The pennies kept rolling in.
No changes were ever made.

It had been a terrible morning.
It was supposed to be one of the happiest days of their lives. Many months had been spent planning the wedding. On the morning of the big day a number of events had unexpectedly taken place. It started with the violent storm that raged through the whole district from first light. The power outage meant that the organ couldn’t be played and candles were set up around the church’s interior. It was as though some unseen force was trying to prevent their marrying.

Meanwhile, all three hired cars broke down, the photographer showed up drunk, her dress got ripped as she got off of her brother-in-law’s motorbike and she was poked in the eye by the umbrella, held for her while getting into the church in the downpour. The best man lost the ring when he fell and broke his leg while jumping off the bus and was replaced by his cousin. In the church, babies started crying and unhappy children started fighting. A candle went over and started a fire in the vestry and a wasp nest was disturbed near the church entrance; several people were stung.
The unlucky couple finally stood together in front of the priest, who was in the process of asking the couple if they wanted to postpone when he had a sudden heart attack.
They had been nodding
Some people just don’t see omens.