Author: Alexander Fawn

The kid had a new toy and couldn’t get enough of playing with it.

It was a doll with a string that you pull to make it speak. He pulled it, yet again and a squeaky voice said, “Hello, I am Wendy your fun friend.” Although he certainly couldn’t get enough of it, his parents, after well over an hour of hearing, “Hello, I am Wendy your fun friend,” repeated over and over again, they suggested that he take it to his room and play with it their until it was time for bed. He happily went along with the suggestion, repeatedly pulling the string until his door closed. In the silence that followed, the parents smiled at each other with a sense of relief.

In his room, after working the toy continually for another hour, with a further pull, the voice said, “Hello. I’m Wendy, but I don’t want to be your friend anymore. In fact, if you pull that string again, my friend Henry, who is a large, hungry crocodile will come in and eat you.”

After sitting on his bed for a while, in a state of shock, he did what small boys are likely to do. He pulled the string again.

This time, it said, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

Moments later, standing at his door, listening to how quiet it was, his mother had come to tuck him in for the night. When she opened the door, the boy screamed and dived under the bed.

It had been several months since they’d had a good downpour of rain.

The orange dust from the desert winds had coated the dwellings of the small community. It had made the place look drab and dirty. Now, following the torrential rain of the previous night, everything was washed clean and the man sitting by his front window was taking in the view. His attention was fully focused on the house across the street. He had issues; he had views. His entire attitude towards, and his strong views about the world, were uncompromisingly set in stone. This state of affairs resulted from a strict upbringing that involved stringent moral guidance from parents that had been kind, but firm. With these mentors long gone, he was left with his own sense of moral judgement.

Now, looking across at the sparkling clean house on the other side of the street, he was overcome with an irrepressible sadness. He was only too aware of the sins that were within.

It was with a heavy heart that for him it was a simple matter of knowing that no amount of rain could wash it clean!

He just happened to see the mossie land on his arm.

Wow! He thought, how often do you see that? I mean, to see the nasty thing the exact moment it lands. The rotten things usually land, bite you, then leave; all this without you having a clue, until later, until the itching starts! He raises his hand to swat it, then pauses. “Hold on,” he whispers, “should I be doing this? He’s going to stick me anyway, I’m really not that quick, am I?” Then, for some quirky reason, he said, “Can we do this later?” At this point, the mosquito, about to drill into flesh, reared up, whispering, “Later?”

Without pausing to wonder why or how such a conversation could possibly take place, he continued, “Oh! I don’t know, it’s been one hell of a week. Not much of an excuse, is it? Really, when you think about it. It’s all quite natural when you seriously consider it. You need to take a feed, while I don’t want the bite or the itch.”

He shook his head, smiling. Then, seeming to come out of a fog, his mind cleared and he doubted that the insect had actually whispered anything.

“Well, did you?” he asked.

It didn’t reply, just bit him.

He was retired, spending his time writing and posting items on a simple website.

It had been his hobby for a number of years. He received a small overseas pension as a result of working in his native country when he was younger. It wasn’t much, but quite sufficient to maintain his office supplies and the various fees required to keep posting items on his site; enough to keep his hobby going. Having said all this, it made the conversation with the man at the bar of the tennis club particularly interesting. Although, this was probably not the way the other man saw it. He was saying he was a commodities trader with his own international business. He described how he had built the business up to a point where it was worth something in excess of half-a-billion on the stock market.

Describing his own situation, the retiree explained that he was happily cruising along on his own meagre resources.

It was at this point in the conversation that the businessman said that it sounded like the other was just managing to scrape by.

To his surprise, the retiree replied, “Not really. In fact, I would say that I currently have more money than you will ever have!”

The other frowned, saying, “How do you make that out?”

“That’s simple” came the reply, “I have enough.”

She suddenly became aware of the fact that the offices would be closing soon.

Later, the woman behind the counter raised her eyebrows and glared at her. Before this she had gone to the counter and fumbled in her bag, and before this she sat watching the digital display, waiting for her number to come up; this, before finding a seat, after previously taking a ticket with a number as she entered. Prior to this she had entered the foyer and found out what floor the department was on, having to walk three blocks beforehand, to get to the building, and before that, she had spent an age, driving around looking for a parking bay. She had saved a few minutes by taking the shortest route into town, before this she had realised how little time she had. Of course, this was before she left the house in a great hurry.

Prior to all this, her mother had said, “Don’t forget to take the form with you!”

The man who entered Harry’s Mystic Emporium was a collector.

On his way in, he couldn’t help noticing the very odd-looking man behind the counter. He was extremely thin and pale. He was hunched over a large leatherbound book. He didn’t look up. As a potential customer, he began to stroll around. Being a retired professional, he was always on the lookout for any unusual objet d’art that would suit his collection of bizarre objects. Most of what he had found had been the result of spending time in shops in countries around the world. Now, having time to kill in a town he didn’t know, he had stumbled upon the shop, in one of the town’s quiet lanes. It had certainly been the name above the door that brought him in.

He had spent time wandering around, when he came to a halt in front of a large, glass cabinet. It seemed to contain a number of what he guessed were particularly precious items.

He was peering in when he spotted it. It was an oval plaque made of white porcelain with a satanic motif. He immediately fell in love with the thing. Glancing back, he saw that the proprietor was still bent over his book.

“How much for this?” he asked casually, pointing to the cabinet.

Closing his book, the strange looking man came over. He saw what the customer was pointing at. “Ah! For that? For that… well, that would cost you your soul.”

The man chuckled. “The soul, you say. Well, since I don’t believe in such nonsense, that would come rather cheap, I think.” Looking back at it through the glass, he asked, “May I hold it?”

“Of course,” said the proprietor, as he produced a key from his pocket, held at the end of a thin chain. Opening the case, he carefully lifted the plaque out and handed it to his prospective buyer, saying, “Do be careful with it, it is quite delicate.”

“It’s beautiful,” said the man. “I have a wall at home, where this belongs.”

“In that case, I take it you won’t mind signing this purchase agreement?”

“Not at all.” He put it down. “This will look very nice in my study. I know just where I intend to put it.” He took the pen being offered. It was an old-fashioned implement, made of wood, with a nib attached. The shopkeeper then pointed to an inkwell.

The man said, “Really? An old pen-and-ink job, eh? This thing’s got an interesting history, already.” He paused. “We haven’t actually settled on a price yet.”

“But we have! I’ll take no money; only your soul.”

The man grinned and signed, saying, “I had no idea when I came in that I’d be leaving with a such a wonderful bargain.”

The proprietor picked up the contract. He said, “A bargain, yes, but I see it as being more of an unholy covenant. I’ll wrap it for you.” Taking it to the counter, this was done, then placed into a carry bag. Holding it up, he said, “after all, we are both collectors.”

Agreeing with the idea, he left the shop a very satisfied customer.

The taxi driver put on a pair of dark glasses and a peaked cap, pulled down.

He could see that his next customer was a woman in a state of panic. Holding her swollen stomach as she struggled into the rear seat for more room, she explained that she needed to get to the hospital quickly. He said that he understood and would get her there as quickly as possible. She thanked him and sat back, trying to remain relaxed. She began taking long, calming breaths. The traffic was fairly light that evening and he got her there in good time. With some effort, she pushed her arm between the front seats, handing him the fare, before clambering out. She thanked him and waddled off towards the main entrance.

Halfway there, she looked back to give a quick wave. She hesitated for a moment before making her way in. With the front of the building lit up, he realised that she may have recognised him, but it wasn’t likely. They had only met once and that had been for less than an hour.

He, on the other hand, remembered her the moment he picked her up. It was at a friend’s wild birthday party, around nine months ago.

It is fair to say that the young man’s luck changed big time with his new job.

Well, job isn’t really the right word. It was more of a business; a registered business, in fact. It had begun when he was unemployed and his uncle had asked if, for a small gratuity, he would give him a hand one weekend to clear out his shed. Although he was supposed to be helping, it soon became a case of his uncle giving occasional assistance. It was in a really bad state, with most of it being junk. As they pulled stuff out, he initially created three basic categories of things to keep, things to sell or give away, and rubbish for the local tip. It was so successful that the work was finished in less than a day. Afterwards, they sat drinking coffee and congratulating themselves on a job well done. It was then that his uncle had suggested it. He pointed out that he’d seen adverts in the local paper where people were charging a fee for sorting out people’s sheds.

That’s how it started. With his own regular advertisement running in local newspapers, and being proficient in the way he operated, in only a few short months he was doing better than he could have thought possible. In fact, by the end of the year he knew that he was in a position to consider retirement as a definite option. His ongoing gains shedding any worries he might have had about his future.

The clincher came one afternoon, during a particularly large shed sorting job. He was going through old paint tins when he discovered it. Being careful to do no more than gently blow the dust off the lamp, he found a piece of cloth and, again being careful not to rub it, wrapped it and placed it in his lunch bag.

That night, when he got home, he went immediately to his own back garden shed. After spending several moments opening the complex digital padlock, he went in, closing the door shut behind him. He switched the light on and gingerly unwrapped his find.

Holding the lamp by his fingertips, ensuring that it wasn’t rubbed, he approached a metal cabinet. Using his thumb on the touch ID reader, he opened the door.

There, he placed it carefully, alongside the others.

The washer felt a slight movement.

It needed to tell wingnut about it. Wingnut would know what to do. It would wait until the machine was switched off. Then it could report what was happening. It was sometime later that this happened. The noise and the vibration stopped and the workshop fell silent. Moments later, the large shed went completely dark and the sound of the door being locked could be heard. Soon after this, the washer spoke up. It told wingnut of its concern.

“Are you actually rattling?” asked wingnut.

“Not rattling, no.”

“I really wouldn’t worry about it,” said wingnut.

“Should I tell bolt about it?”

“No. No need for that.”

“Surely, he’ll need to use a spanner to fix us, sooner or later.”

“Spanner, you say? No need for that either, I do have wings.”

“Oh! Yes, of course, sorry.”

“I can be tightened by hand quite easily. When you start rattling, I am sure to be made tight again, but thank you for letting me know.”

“OK. You’re welcome.”

He was driving home, late in the evening, thinking about the argument.

Thinking back, he knew it was a mistake to rub the man up the wrong way. He had no idea who the man was. He had caught site of him in the city a couple of times and although he always looked well-dressed, he felt there was something shady about him. That morning he’d been parking his car when the guy in an expensive sports car had blasted his horn, trying to park in the same spot. Thinking back, he was sure he had begun backing into the space before the other man. Anyway, what followed was an almighty row. He was within his rights on the matter and wasn’t in the mood to give in to the man’s bullying and arrogance. The incident had played on his mind all day in the office…

Parking at the rear of the apartment block, he took the lift to the third floor. Entering his unit, where he lived alone, he made straight for the kitchen and put the kettle on. Making a strong coffee, the thing that usually calmed his nerves, he went through to the lounge to sit and relax with it.

It was there, laying on the floor… a handgun!

He couldn’t believe his eyes. He had never owned a gun. Never felt the need. Maybe it was a toy, but he’d had very few visitors of late. He picked it up. Turning it over in his hands, it was surprisingly heavy. It certainly was real. He began to look around. If someone had broken in and left it, had anything been taken?

He began to go from room to room, looking for signs that he’d been burgled.

He was doing this when the front doorbell sounded. He wasn’t expecting anyone, at least, not this late. It could be his neighbour, wanting to borrow something again. Slipping the gun in his pocket, he made his way to the door.

As he did, he hardly noticed the blue light flashing in the street below.