The Junk Shop

The rain was pounding the pavement relentlessly as the small boy first set foot in the shelter of the junk shop. He waved his hand to clear the cloud of cigar smoke and dust that engulfed him as he entered, and stared wide-eyed at the ancient objects that filled the room. The steady shuffle-snap-thump of a pack of cards drifted from the far side of the room, and he turned as an old voice creaked like a rocking chair,

‘Can I help ye, boy?’

‘I’m just looking,’ the boy stammered, made somewhat uneasy by the old eyes that stared, unwavering, at him. The old man dropped his cards on the table and studied the young face, head tilted to the side.

‘You like stories?’ he asked after a moment. There was a lilt to the man’s voice, as if it once originated from Edinburgh, but had been weathered over time.

‘I… I like adventure stories,’ the boy replied, unsure if this was the right answer. The old man seemed to think for a little longer, before gesturing to a rocking chair in front of the table.

‘You’ll like this’n, then. Sit.’

The boy obliged, if a little dubiously, and proceeded to swing his little legs back and forth on the creaking chair as the old man started to speak.

‘See that spyglass o’er in the corner there?’ the old man pointed, ‘that’s right, the blackened old brass one. Want to know how I got to be in possession of such an item?’

The boy nodded his head eagerly, earning a satisfied smile from the old man.

‘Well, m’boy, it all started with a vicious pirate who went by the name of Cap’n Carlton Cook…’

The boy edged slowly forward in his seat, entranced by the old man’s stories of Carlton Cook and his bloodthirsty travels across the seven seas, of his vow of revenge following his death by the hands of one Matthew Luckton, and of his cursed spyglass that brought death on all that dared to look through, passing cold hands a hundred times before arriving at the junk shop.

‘And his angered spirit lives on in that spyglass,’ the mans voice suddenly dropped to a whisper, ‘Sometimes in the dead of night you can still hear the rattle of his last drowning breath.’

A loud CLANG echoed throughout the shop and the young boy screamed, before recognizing the chimes of an old grandfather clock. The sound faded away, replaced by the old man’s booming laughter. The boy scowled and the laughter eventually ceased. After catching his breath the old man sent the boy home with a pat on the back and a promise of more stories to come if he could take the time to stop by the next day. So the boy went home and excitedly recounted the story of the spyglass to his mother, before settling down to sleep and dreaming of pirates, adventures, and old things.

The next day the returned, and the day after that, and for every day that week, and each day the old man recounted to him the thrilling origins of another item from the shop. One day a glass egg harvested from a crystal dragon, the next the cigar box of a billionaire who murdered his way to fame, the next a battered fez that had once crowned the head of Gonzo the monkey, who fled the circus to live the life of a solo performer.

Over time the old man and the young boy became close friends, until one day the boy came to the junk shop to find the windows empty of their dusty objects. He entered the building to find them, along with the other contents of the shop, being packed into boxes by the sole occupant of the room: a young woman with dark hair and a solemn expression.

‘Shop’s closed,’ she grunted after a brief glance in his direction.

‘Why?’ the boy asked in confusion, ‘where’s the old man who usually works here?’ The girl shot him a concerned look and stood up with a sigh,

‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured, ‘he passed away last night.’

The little boy stood still in shock, not quite able to believe what he’d just heard. He just managed to whisper a single word:

‘Why?’

The young woman crouched in front of him,

‘He was old, sweetheart,’ she told him with a sad smile, ‘but he had a good life.’

The boy nodded his head at that, sniffling slightly,

‘Yes he did. He had all sorts of adventures. He knew about pirates and dragons and all kinds of cool stuff!’ The young woman laughed slightly,

‘Oh God, he’s been telling you about his ridiculous ‘adventures’ too?’ she smiled, ‘Don’t get me wrong, he was an excellent storyteller, but what you have to understand about Grandpa is that he didn’t know the difference between the things that really happened and the things he made up in his head. And if the things he imagined were more exciting, he’d just stick with them, take them as the truth.’ The girl got up with another sigh, ‘Well, at least it made life interesting.’ She ruffled the boy’s hair before turning around to finish packing up the boxes, and he glared at her.

‘I don’t care if the stories were real or not,’ he told her with a pout, ‘because I believe them and if I believe them then at least they’re real to someone.’ And with that he stormed out of the shop, the girl looking after him in shock.

As he stomped home the boy thought long and hard about what the old man’s granddaughter had said. Eventually, he came to the conclusion that maybe the spyglass was empty of angry spirits, maybe there were no crystal dragons, and maybe monkeys didn’t dream. He could believe that stories were nothing but stories, and he could live a normal, boring life, with no magic or adventures… but where would be the fun in that? So in that moment the young boy made a vow to himself to live a life the old man would be proud of. He would go out into the world and live the adventures the old man spoke of, and more. He would make things happen, real things, so that one day he could have magnificent stories of his own to tell to someone just like him.