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It’s great to pop back in and see some familiar faces still hanging around.
Sticking with my own situation, I’m going to go with a one word theme – ‘Returned.’ You are open to interpret this anyway you like: a person returning, or an object being returned, or even something being turned and the turned again if you’re really into hyphens.
Less than 500 words please
The Emporium.
I’d been watching the place for a while and now I was ready.
The tiny shop by the empty mill was cobwebbed in layers of age and the light inside flickered with a hospitable glow. The antique-looking sign over the bottle-glass door announced it was an “Emporium Of Returned Things”.
It was out of the way and the perfect place to rob.
As I walked through the door, with the carved child’s rattle I‘d picked up by the waterwheel of the old mill, the brass bell announced my arrival.
The counter clerk looked as time worn as his shop, but his eyes glinted with the satisfaction that comes from obtaining a bargain as he turned the rattle over in his hand.
‘Nice piece he said appreciatively, ‘why are you returning it?’
‘Not mine,’ I told him, ‘I found it on the path by the waterwheel, guessed someone may have dropped it and thought they might be back for it.’
‘Hmmm, I’ve not seen one of these for many years. Not much call for ‘em these days what with them newfangled plastic toys and such. The shop warehouse out back has one section just full of that cheap stuff.’
That threw me a little because the small shop had barely enough room to even swing the rattle and there was definitely no warehouse. ‘Warehouse out back?’
‘Oh yes, stacks and stacks of shelves several stories high you know. Some of the things returned are unbelievable, their value immeasurable and I, as the appointed clerk for the collection and cataloguing of all items, can tell you where everything is kept as well as its history.’
‘But, the place aint that big.’
He shrugged. ‘Just a trick of the light, this shop is larger than you think and its purpose is even bigger.’
A warning sensation tickled at the base of my skull.
He twirled the rattle in his fingers, ‘this rattle for example, you say it is not yours?’
I nodded, ‘I found it, moments ago, outside.’
He smiled, but the cold warning of his voice cut, like the knife in my pocket. ‘You wouldn’t have found it if it wasn’t linked to you somehow.’
The warning tickle grew into an itch. I went to back away but was unable to move. The doorbell tinkled persistently yet the door remained tight shut behind me.
Fear picked at my bones.
A fine mist of dust motes trailed down from the ceiling.
The clerk moved to my side of the counter, ‘The warehouse pulley will take you to where you will receive your repayment.’ I felt him secure the large hooks under my belt.
As the pulley rattled upward his smile faded, ‘When things are returned here the reimbursement is in kind, you know,’ he said, softly. ‘I pity you for I think your payback will not be pleasant, friend. This toy reeks of childhood and a playmate buried alive, left to die alone and undiscovered.’
(492)
Retrieving memories
When on the Word Cloud, in 2014, Alan P proposed the challenge ‘We’re not in Kansas anymore’, I was in need of an explanation as to why Luke Darbyshere ( DI and main character in my ‘Love triangles with murder’ series) regularly sabotaged relationships at the point when they looked like becoming meaningful. His upbringing, his parents were clearly the cause and in attempting to bring that to life I returned to the mid-1950s, the Hertfordshire village of Hunsdon, and a fledgling friendship with new-to-the-village Fran Griffiths, memories of which seeded the behaviour of Luke’s parents and paternal grandparents.
On my first visit (they had one of Hunsdon’s (now Grade II listed) High Street cottages) there was awkwardness, not knowing what to do with each other. I recall being fascinated – a little awed — by how much more socially at ease she was than I, while simultaneously wondering why she thought anyone would be interested in the black wooden cabinet she steered me to, pulling out and closing one shallow drawer after another, to show me trays of birds’ eggs or pinned down butterflies. Her father’s hobby, she told me. I thought it weird.
A far vaguer memory had him briefly enter the room. He wore army khaki, lots of buttons, his black hair Brylcreemed flatly to his head, maybe a moustache. From somewhere I’d been told he was a major, but for some reason ’bantam’ stuck more firmly.
Soon after, they moved four miles to Stanstead Abbots. It was arranged that I would visit for the day.
It wasn’t a success. Neither of us could think what to do; I remember gazing from her bedroom across an empty carpark. Somehow, we filled the day. But when it came to teatime (what I now call dinner) her father demonstrated his bullying nature when filling our plates.
‘Do you like asparagus?’
I’d never heard of it. Shook my head.
Suddenly, disproportionately, aggressive. ‘Have you ever tasted it?’
Ditto.
‘Then you will eat some.’
The slimy nature of the three or four slivers of greenery deposited on my plate revolted me. I was already shocked at his rudeness; a grown-up not allowing me to know my mind (and was simultaneously aware of the wispy reluctance (maybe inability?) of Fran’s mother to speak on my behalf) Not being an especially bold child (ever mindful of the need to “be good”) I felt afraid.
Now, of course, I recognise it wasn’t much in the way of cruelty, but the fear from having displeased never left me. No more did what I had perceived of the dynamics between husband and wife.) Luke’s father’s choice of wife had been viewed as unforgiveable, his bullying army father saw noting of the soldier and Luke’s spitty-voiced grandmother never liked him. It was no wonder Luke’s mother behaved as badly as she did, abandoning him at the age of thirteen.
[481 words]
The Return
Brenda’s dad died in 1983, so when he returned forty years later, it was a bit of a nuisance. Brenda woke up and went down to make a cup of tea. She was rather surprised to see him sitting in the kitchen looking out of the window.
‘You’ve let the garden go,’ he said without looking round. Then he did look round, and he added, ‘Bloody hell! You’ve let yourself go as well.’
Since they were now pretty much the same age, as far as appearances went, Brenda thought this was a bit rude.
‘Well, you were never much of a picture yourself for that matter,’ she replied.
‘Eh?’ he said. ‘Speak up. My deaf-aid needs a new battery.’
He poked and prodded at a beige-coloured plastic box.
‘For God’s sake, Dad, that thing was way out of date when you went. Why did you never get yourself some better ones?’
‘Don’t need them,’ he snorted. ‘Waste of time and money. This works fine—and I can turn it off when I’ve heard enough. Come on then, where’s my cuppa?’
Brenda poured him a cup and pushed it across the table. She fetched a bag of sugar and a spoon, placing them by the cup.
‘And another thing,’ he said, his voice gruff and accusing, ‘what’s all that crap in my room?’
‘That crap,’ said Brenda, ‘is my sewing stuff. And it hasn’t been your room for years. I suppose I’ll have to move it all to the spare-room now. How long are you staying anyway?’
‘How the flipping heck should I know? What’s for breakfast?’
‘Scrambled eggs and toast.’
‘Haven’t you got any bacon? I like bacon.’
*
He claimed that he couldn’t get used to this modern telly, but Brenda noticed that once he’d discovered how to jump through the channels on the remote, he seemed quite at home with it.
‘It’s too big,’ he moaned. ‘How do you watch a thing that size? And I don’t like colour. What’s wrong with black and white like a proper telly?’
‘Colour telly’s been around since I was young. You were just too mean to pay the extra pound a month.’
‘And the extra thirty quid for a license, my girl!’
‘Well, you don’t have to pay for a license now because I pay it. And I like colour.’
‘There’s too many channels,’ he said, changing to another.
*
The days went by without him moving far from the sofa. In many ways it felt just as it had before he died, only Brenda was older, and found caring for him a struggle. He didn’t cook or clean or wash-up. He did complain about the food.
A week or so later, Brenda came back from shopping. Her dad was gone.
*
After another week on her own, she stripped her dad’s bed and moved her sewing stuff back. She felt a little lonely now, even though she preferred her own company. She bought a cat.
495 words
<p style=”text-align: center;”>The Sale</p>
The charlatan, bushy eyebrows, and matching scarlet hair, propped in her doorway. “What do you want?”I thrust my hand with the violin towards her. “I need to return this.”
“My ad said no returns.”
“You don’t have to refund me, just take it back.”
“No returns.”
This was proving harder than I thought.
“What kind of punk rock band needs a violin? I only bought it because it was so cheap,” I said.
“Didn’t The Clash have a violinist?” She laughed.
Joke about a lot of things, not The Clash. But now was not the time.
I said, “It’s not staying in tune.”
“You’re a bad liar.”
Desperate times called for honesty.
No noise came from her house, the street was deserted, but I found myself whispering, “Weird things have been happening since I bought this violin.”
She stared at the doorstep with its zigzagging crack. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’ve been hearing my dad’s voice and he passed away a decade ago.”
She fidgeted with the hem of her baggy dress.
“Last night, my new toaster caught fire,” I said.
“Maybe you need to return the toaster and not the violin you willingly bought.”
I could not stand another night with inexplicable cold in my home, hearing the wails of a child I never had, chairs overturning themselves.
“I could just dump the violin here,” I said.
“It wouldn’t change a thing for you, I have to invite in, and I’m not going to.”
“So, you admit this thing is haunted?”
She glanced around, exhaled. “Haven’t you noticed you play better since you bought the violin?”
My playing had improved in the last week, but I figured that was on account of my wife trading me in for a new beau, and the time that had freed. Besides, my band was playing simple tunes.
“Legend has it the original owner traded his soul for musical talent,” she said.
“Please, take this thing. I’m begging you.”
“I’m not inviting it in.”
# #
I was going to sell the violin to some sucker, pass the ghost on, but wouldn’t you know it? A concert hall manager watched me on a video I posted online and was blown away by my adaptation of The Clash in the style of Beethoven. She passed my number on, and three months later, I sat in the London Symphony Orchestra. Farewell empty bars and ten-dollar gigs, hello mucho dinero and a packed auditorium. It was well worth the haunting.
Word Count: 416 words
First of all, thanks for allowing me to come back into the fold and do this. I’d forgotten how much fun these are, and I can’t believe just how much people can express in so few words. I loved all of them in different ways.
Sandra, I found your piece thoughtful and intriguing. I love the part of writing when you revisit a character to find out a bit more about them. I used to do this often by putting them in unusual situations and then waiting for them to react and finding out why they reacted that way. Also loved the nod to Alan P’s comp. I think I read many of those stories too.
Ath, I just love your sense of humour. I always feel light-hearted after reading your stuff, and this was no exception. The matter of fact way that Brenda’s dad just shows up, being dead and all, and has a cuppa and moans about the telly. So much life in the characters in so few words.
Alex, the panic at trying to return a haunted violin was not what I expected when I set the challenge. But again, I found myself intrigued. I thought why not just burn it but then imagined the reign of hellfire that may arise. This was both imaginative and fun. I really enjoyed it.
But for me Terrie is this month’s winner. I feel like your piece played to my inner darkness. I read yours when you first posted it and felt chills. I read it again when Sandra posted and felt them again. It was dark and delicious. Slick writing and disturbing ending had me gripped.
Well done all and Thank you.
Over to you Terrie.
Congratulations Terrie – a tale that got richer with every re-reading, as did those of Alex and Ath. And thank you Pinkbelt for the challenge.
Well done, @purplewitch. That was an excellent return to the monthly competition 🙂
Liked that prompt @pinkbelt75. Super bunch of entries this month.
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