Writing Prompt

𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗆𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝗒 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗁 𝖼𝗈𝖺𝗍 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗋𝖽 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝖨 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝗃𝗈𝖻

𝗍𝗋𝗎𝖽𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇𝗍𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗉 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝗋𝗎𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗄𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋'𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗎𝗇𝗎𝖺𝗅

"𝖨 𝖶𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗐!." 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝗂𝗇 𝗆𝗒 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾

"𝖨𝗍𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽." 𝖨 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗆𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾

"𝗗𝗼 𝗜 𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗸 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗮 𝗙𝘂𝗰𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝗱𝗶𝗼𝘁?!." 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗒'𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗋𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖩𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗏 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗒 𝗍𝗒𝗉𝖾 𝗂𝖿 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋.

𝖨 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗀𝗎𝗒𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝖾

"𝖺𝗆 𝗂 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍?."

𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗎𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝗉𝗎𝖿𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾

𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗎𝗒𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗋

"𝗜 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗮𝗸 𝘁𝗼 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗺𝗮𝗻𝗮𝗴𝗲𝗿!." 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖾𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝗇 𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽

𝖨 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝖥 𝖻𝗈𝗆𝖻 "𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍."

𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍

𝖩𝖾𝖿𝖿 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗄 "𝗐𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗀𝗈 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝗎𝗌𝗌𝗇𝗂𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖩𝖺𝖼𝗄."

"𝗐𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗆𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖺𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖩𝖾𝖿𝖿." 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗆𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖾

𝖨 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝖺 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺 𝗌𝗐𝗂𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋

𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖨 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗒𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗑 𝗈𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾

𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀

𝖺 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋

𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿

Mack is the name, fixings the game. I’ve fixed a lot of things. Cars, phones, furniture, give me an item and I’ll give you a price, but today, today is…different. “Can you fix it?” A young man, maybe twenty asks. He’s normal, blue eyes, fiery red hair, pale, and lean. But for some reason he was different. “Not if I don’t know what it is, red.” I raise an eyebrow at the odd contraption, it has a gun barrel and trigger, so a weapon of some sort, but it’s also glowing, and somewhat hovering. “It’s a haldudk, I need it fixed quick! I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t need to!” “Do you have a blueprint by any chance?” I sigh. “Oh,” He pulls a wrinkled piece of paper out of his pocket, sketched on it is a very detailed drawing of the weapon, little notes on what it does and such. “Will this work?” “Yeah, did you draw this, red?” I look at him, then the paper, then him again as he nods.“Impressive. You got money?” “Yup!” He pulls a wad of cash out of his pocket, “How’s three thousand? I can do card, cash or check!” “Yeah that works! Cash is good. So what is this hal…hapl… weapon?” “It’s designed to destroy the ogre- ogre like soldiers we’ve been fighting.” That’s why he’s different. He’s a freaking elf! “Don’t worry, red!” Pull my black hair away from my ears, long enough for them to morph, round, to pointy, back to round. “Why ya think I’m in the repair industry?” “You do magic?” He whispers. “In the human world?” “Well I kinda have to, to make a living.” “But why would you need to make a living here? Money isn’t really a problem in Atlantis, or Shang Ri La, or anywhere! You could live there with all the glamor and none of the labor! Why would you choose the human cities.” “I’m an outlaw in the Elvin cities, red.”

A quaint, rustic shop lies just off the road of a lesser known street. It’s sign sways to the breeze of an autumn evening, revealing elegant words that spell out, ‘Oswald’s Trinkets’. A traveler enters off the cobbled stone just as the shop keep flicks a dusty lantern on. Interested, the shop keep’s attention is drawn to the entrance, squinting at the traveler. The hilt of her longsword pokes out right under her deep hazel hair. She quickly makes her way through a maze of shelfs to where the shop keep sits.

“What has Mazie brought me today?” His voice releases in a squeaky tone, placing down a bobble he was holding.

Letting her backpack sling off to one shoulder she responds, “Great dungeon haul today, along with an awful lot of fighting.” She rummages in the bag before pulling out various captivating items. “You ever wish you could get out of this stuffy shop old man?” She teased while pulling out a dazzling potion that glows a vibrant blue.

The potion illuminates the man as he adjusts his striped shirt collar and responds, “Of course not, this shop is my purpose. It was passed down from my father and from his father before him. I could not give any of them up.” Smiling under his scraggly beard, he then goes to inspects several of the items.

“ooooo, an ornate tea pot! And several ivory daggers!” He exclaims as he excitedly pulls out the partially damaged objects. The man recoils in disgust mewling, “Ohhhh! Great Googldy Gitchers!! Is this a finger?!”

“It sure is, and I need you to mend the skin ,” she chuckles, smirking.

A face of disgust ripples across the shop keeps face like a baby tasting a lemon for the first time. He stammers, “And, i-is this your digit?”

“nope.”

“You sure is ugly,” Jerri mocked. “Why are you so ugly?” She sat down the grimy fortune teller toy on her counter and returned to her box of treasures. Rainbows from the dozen chandeliers hung from her ship’s ceiling played across the vintage windup. When Jerri left HR to open an antique shop she hadn’t counted on so many early mornings or so many spiders. Carefully avoiding the annoyed wolf spider in the crate, Jerri unpacked the last jadeite tea cup. Doing a skippy scaredy-cat dance, She carried Mr. Spider in the box to her shop door and tossed him into the planter. Quizzically Jaime, the bookseller across the street, looked up at her from lounge chair. “Morning,” Jerri said. “Salutations to you Sister Moon and your insect friend.” Jaime drew on his vape and gave her an authentic Cheshire grin. Jerri blushed and then hurried back into the safety of her store. Ugly soothsayer toy smirked from her counter. She shook the toy gently. No rattle, it’s probably rusted solid, Jerri thought. Maybe I can find an online buyer. Gingerly she turned the red metal handle. Smooth as butter the handle turned and the red and green checkered box vibrated in her hands. It reminded her a wiggly puppy but not in a good way. She dropped it. A slip of paper fell out. We all can’t be as beautiful as you sweetheart at least that’s what your hot neighbor thinks. Jerri read the fortune four times. I’m being pranked she thought. She checked for other people and hidden cameras. “You’re not a magical fortune teller demon doll are you?” She wound it. A paper slipped out of the grimacing clown’s chest. I love Rod Serling too. Name’s Padriq. But don’t drop me again it hurts my butt. Jerri hid in the bathroom. After the nausea past she considered her options. If this was madness at least it was imaginative. After googling sudden onset schizophrenia Jerri plunged her pop culture vault. She ventured back to the windup with a plunger, the only weapon in the bathroom. “Have you come here to trick me into losing my soul in some kind of poignant trick ending? And what’s tomorrow’s lottery number if it won’t doom me?” Jerri stared at the clown and clown stared back. Jerri was convinced he looked pitiful. She remembered to turn the handle. Paper: You should get out more. And sugar lips if I knew the future why would I be stuck in a box. Her knees shook. Jerri sank to the floor and rocked. Titaba, the shop cat she inherited when she leased the antique store, strolled over and nuzzled her chin. Jerri exhaled and pulled her hair into a bun. She got a pen a paper and poured the cat some kitty milk. “Are you a cursed item set to destroy the balance of good and evil?” Paper: do you write fan fiction? Girly, I’m wearing a pom pom hat get hold of yourself. “Why are you here?” Why are any of us anywhere. Seriously doll face you picked me up yesterday from an estate sale bargain table. Bargain table! “Describe your worst trait?” I’m careless. I used to be an artist but I was …instead of working I was quite the merrymaker. Whatever you do buttercup if you date a warlock don’t make out with his sister. “Where do you see yourself in five years?” The clown’s crestfallen face touched her. The paper came out so slowly. Outlook unclear Jerri sighed. Gently with swabs and QuixKleen wax paste she cleaned his face. As she buffed Jerri asked, “is there anyway to free you? I know what it’s like to be trapped.” Paper: not unless you know a good witch Titaba mewed from the front door. “Use that perfectly fine litter box in the back,” Jerri called to her. The plump calico looked indigent and pawed at the glass door. Jerri looked across the street at the bookshop. Bell, Book, and Candle in gilt letters shimmered on the bookshop glass window. On a hunch, Jerri tucked Padriq under her arm opened the door and headed across the street to have the second weirdest conversation of her life. Titaba preened in the windowsill and fell asleep paws up belly warmed by the sun.

The day I received a poppet was a day just like any other—partly cloudy, birds singing, and a beautiful breeze drifting through the trees.

Perhaps bad things are destined to happen on days like those.

I stepped outside and let out a heavy sigh. A rusted, dent-battered car sat beside the shop. The owner complained of a busted car engine, but I could tell many other problems were going on with it.

I was tending to the car engine when Mrs. Agatha arrived.

She was a frail, old thing. A shock of white hair sprung from her head, sweeping down in front of her pale face. Deep wrinkles engraved themselves in her skin and would move with her mouth as she spoke, revealing crooked yellow teeth. With her shoulders hunched and her back arched, she hobbled up to me. One hand gripped a wooden walking stick, and the other was clutching something small—something I couldn't recognize.

“Hello, ma’am,” I said, wiping my hands on my jeans. “What can I do for you today?”

“I won’t have any of that “ma’am” nonsense!” She scolded, flashing a wry grin. “You can call me Mrs. Agatha.”

I gave an uncomfortable chuckle as I closed the hood of the car. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Agatha.”

The old lady’s friendly expression suddenly dropped into a solemn state. “I’m sorry to trouble you, but I’m afraid my most beloved possession requires some repairing,” Mrs. Agatha rasped. She extended her bony hand and uncurled her fingers, revealing a foreign object I hadn’t seen before.

A poppet.

It was small and doll-like, made up of what appeared to be gnarled twine. Gruesomely twisted into the form of a person, its joints and neck were bound together with wads of foul-smelling wax. The poppet had no face, no identity—just a head made of twine.

“This poppet meant the world to me,” Miss Agatha sighed. “But I fear it’s much too old for me to fix any longer.”

I stared at the poppet in startled fascination, then quickly recollected myself when I noticed Mrs. Agatha arch her eyebrows at me. “Oh—yes, of course,” I hurried to the shop entrance and pulled the door open for her. “I can fix that up right away.”

Mrs. Agatha entered the shop and glanced around the cluttered, fluorescent-lit room. “Tell me—what is your name?” She asked.

“I’m Toby,” I replied, pulling up a stool to my “quick fixes” table—a worn wooden table I centered in the middle of the shop. “I can take a look at your poppet now if you'd like.”

Mrs. Agatha blinked at me and pursed her lips, then set the poppet shakily on the table. “Make it snappy,” she demanded, casting a quick look over her shoulder at the entrance.

I frowned at her sudden impatience but said nothing as I took the poppet and inspected it.

It was indeed a weird and rather hastily-made poppet, but nothing seemed broken. I set it down and gave Mrs. Agatha a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Agatha,” I said. “But I can’t find anything wrong with your poppet.”

Suddenly, Mrs. Agatha’s face contorted into a look of seething anger. Curtains of her white hair threw shadows over her wrinkled face. She tightened up her claw-like fingers and pounded the table with her fist. “Fix him!” She screamed into my face.

Alarmed, I blindly reached for the poppet and bent its back in half, severing it. The twine figure was now more distorted than ever, laying in a heap on the table.

Mrs. Agatha gazed at the poppet with foggy eyes and began to chuckle—which evolved into wild, hysterical laughter. “Yes!” She shrieked. “It worked! You’re a murderer—a cold-blooded murderer! You killed him!”

I stared at her, dumbfounded.

Later that day, as a pair of handcuffs clipped around my wrists, I came to understand what had happened.

Anything you did to a poppet would affect the individual it represented.

Mrs. Agatha made a poppet resembling her husband.

After a long and exhausting marriage, she decided enough was enough. She discovered the evil witchcraft of poppets and made one for her husband. He was a brittle man—the slightest bend or break on his poppet could have killed him. However, not wanting to mangle the poppet herself, Mrs. Agatha had to find someone naive enough to do it for her.

I guess I was that someone.

Just some morning in my passed father’s old repair shop, man that place’s filthy. Cleaned it up a bit, picked a few needed necessary items that may help my repair shop, too many of these nasty rusty items, it’s been too long since I’ve been here. I took a break from this job for 5 months not expecting much to change but much did change, items everywhere, things I hadn’t seen ever before, it was weird because I never really thought to discover the shop in debt rather than just fixing basic things. I pick up a racket I had saw, it broke once I picked it up, a tool box that was half chopped and much more creeped man made items. I walk slowly towards the back of the store and hear a tap, like some animal was moving. I head towards the sound more and more and I see a weird shaped box filled with rust and bugs, with curiousness I kick it and quickly a rat runs out and I gasp. That thing disappeared as fast as I blinked, I turn around and the same box I see symbols and weird lettering. I get suspicious on how I all of a sudden find all this and why these random letters are placed specifically in my father’s old repair room. I do my research and as I am I noticed one of the words that was backwards had said, “m u r d 3 r.” I hear a creek on the back door and as I turn around something seems to appear closer and closer, I just can’t describe what it was clearly, it was black and had vicious eyes, I feared whatever was coming. As I grasp for one breath I realize this was it, what my dad had said when I found him dead lying on the ground in the same room, it was him, he was black, it was the same creature my dad warned me on about before his passing. I knew this was him, with no armor or protection, the creature whispers, “wonder who’s next.” Seconds later, chokes me. I died. Earlier that day on the same weird box, was a number, this number was #5. Weirdly this event occurred 5 years after my father had died. Is this creature killing someone every 5 years? Has he always? Who’s next? The End.

“Ok, hand it over.” I say in my normal monotone voice that I use for work, not even bothering to look up. A little hand clock is slid over to my side of the desk. “What needs fixin?” I ask, still uninterested. “I was just wondering if you could reshine it a bit.” A female voice says from somewhere above my head. I inspect the clock, even though I don’t need to. “Sure thjng. It’ll be just a minute.” I grab my materials and get to work. While i’m doing the outside, I find a little latch. Now this catches my attention. I haven’t seen one of these in years. Well, I figure my client probably wants the inside cleaned too, so I open it up. Inside, is a picture of a small boy, barely 6 years old. But the face, oh the face I recognize. Memories come flooding back into my head. The war, the blood spilled, the fighting, the starving, the running. All of my sacrifices. For the first time, I look up at the face of my client, and recognition sparks in both of our eyes. The person I thought I lost forever, my sister.

Sometimes things have a life of their own. I knew that the second this camera was mysteriously at the shop door. Some part of me recognized it but the rest of me did my job. I cleaned it. I opened it. Suddenly, I opened up the bottom compartment to see photos pop out. They were black and white photos from back when I was practically 16. I looked at the photos deeper and realized, they were mine! It was me and. Him. It was my camera. I recognized the photo instantly. It was the day before his parents made him leave. When we sat on the grass staring at the stars thinking that our story was like Romeo and Juliet. Yet we would get a happy ending. I grab my necklace and pull out a ring. A ring I’ve had since the day he gave me this promise ring and I said yes. But then he was punished by leaving and never coming back. I look through all the photos, tears cascading down my cheeks as I feel paper on the bottom. A note that reads,

Dear Amber,

Find me. This was almost never able to happen. But. I miss you. I take the oath I took to you that day seriously and I hope you did too. Find me at Klingon kingdom at the place and prant.

From, Ames

It was him! I repeated the oath in my head once again like I have done every day for the past 3 years.

As long as you hold this ring and I hold my heart, we will be together, even when apart.

Oscar raised the tiny, ornate toy to the exposed bulb hanging over his desk. It was a small silver tin car with comically large wheels and a too-bright cherry coat of cherry red paint. It was an ugly thing really, poorly made, and garishly inaccurate o the real thing. But Oscar was not in the business of critiquing other people’s inventions, he was simply the man who fixed said inventions when they ultimately failed.

Once satisfied with his repair (though not with the design of the toy itself), Oscar laid the car on his outstretched palm and held it out to his customer.

“There, the wheels should move just fine now, lad”, he exclaimed, grinning at the young boy standing in front of his desk. The boy’s face split into a giddy smile and he reached out a grubby little hand to accept the toy. But before the boy could touch it, Oscar quickly snatched his hand away. The boy’s face fell, a confused expression replacing his previous joy.

“Don’t you worry, you will get your toy back soon enough. But first, where is your father? I can only give you back the repaired artifact once I receive full payment”, Oscar explained, leaning forward to look beyond the boy and towards the shop door.

One thing about this business, is that it was easy for people to question the worth of your repairs.

‘But it was just a rusted cog, surely, it’s not a repair worth 2 silver coins’

‘When I told you to fix the engine I assumed you’d fix the tires too, I will not be paying you for your service if you cannot follow simple instruction’

-Those were just two of the many instances people tried to crook Oscar in the past. But Oscar had three rules in this business:

1.  Always take a down payment before getting hold of any broken items (it also helps to suggest a higher down payment could result in quicker repairs, though that was rarely true)
   

2.  Collect payment before handing back the fixed item
   

3.  Never ask too many questions. If concerned about the morality of the item you are fixing, simply ask for a higher charging fee, that usually balances things out and soothes the concerned mind.
   

The boy chewed his lip.

“But sir, my father is still out of town. He promised he’ll pay you back when he arrives tomorrow”

Oscar tsked and shook his head.

“Sorry, kid. No payment, no toy. How about I hold on to it until your father comes back tomorrow?”

Oscar pushed away from the table, rising from his old worn chair slowly. He grabbed the twisted wooden cane leaning against his desk and walked towards the far end of the room. Along one of the walls of the store there was a towering shelf filled with half completed projects, items even more broken than before he had accepted them, and items he had confiscated from customers who had failed to pay him back. Oscar found a bare spot on the shelf, blew away the dust that had settled and placed the little red car there.

“See, it will be waiting for you right here”, he said, gesturing to the shelf before turning back to the boy. The young childs cheeks reddened in what Oscar could imagine was anger.

“’But that’s my toy! You can’t just keep it”, the boy huffed, crossing his arms.

“Hmmm, not exactly. One of the wheels is mine, so technically, I have some degree of ownership over the toy”, Oscar explained. With one hand still on his cane, he used the other to gently nudge the boy’s shoulder towards the door.

“Now off you go. I am closing soon”

Once they were close to the fogged glass door of his store, the boy whirled around, clearly not prepared to give up so quickly.

“Hey, I was still talking to you”, he squeaked, anger making his voice pinched and high.

“This can wait for tomorrow. Surely, you’ll be going to bed now anyway. You won’t be playing any time soon”, Oscar urged, nudging the boy once more.

One foot over the threshold. They were so close now, just one mor-

The boy spun around again, pinning his frosty gaze on Oscar.

“I’m going to tell my father about this”, the boy shrieked, desperate hysteria making his voice grow loud.

“Great!”, Oscar chirped, giving the boy one final shove. He waited until the boy steadied himself on the dirty, rain-streaked sidewalk, before adding: “And while you’re at it, let him know I expect my payment sometime tomorrow”.

Without even waiting for the childs reply he shut the door. He unfurled the tattered curtain rolled at the top of the door and let it fall over the window, signifying that ‘Oscar’s’ was closed.

Finally, he was done for the day.

Oscar hobbled towards his desk, cursing his wounded leg for acting up again today. This entire week the wretched thing had been aching, making it difficult to sit at his desk for long periods of time. On his way to his desk, Oscar grabbed a small green jar of ointment that sat on one of his many messy shelves.

Once seated at his chair, he rolled up his trouser leg and began slathering the stuff all over his skin.

It was an odd concoction, one that smelled rank and left his skin feeling sticky, but the local apothecary, Gilda, had been right. It seemed to be the only thing that offered his aging joints temporary relief.

Oscar let out a heavy breath as he massaged the ointment in, enjoying the warm sensation that tingled across his skin. You see, Oscar may have been a repair man, but in all his years of fixing there was one thing that was beyond even his help, his leg. For that permanent brokenness of his prized limb, he had time to blame; the one thing that eventually, seemed to break everything.

Oscar was deep in thought, gingerly rubbing the curve of his knee when the bell above the door chimed, signaling someone had walked into the store.

Had he not closed the curtain? Could this person not take a hint and just leave him alone?

“We’re closed”, Oscar grunted, not even bothering to look up from his task.

But all he was met with was silence. There was still a shadow cast on the wooden floors and the door had yet to close, which meant the customer was still standing there.

Oscar sighed, sealed his jar of ointment, and let down his pant leg.

“I said, we are closed for the day. Come again tomor- “

Oscar’s words died away as he looked up at the man who now stood in his store. He was tall and broad, so much so that he had to bow his head and pull in his shoulders to walk through the door. Though he was drenched in water from the rain, his peculiar black coat still looked spectacular, tailored so finely to his build that he had to be of upper-class status.

“What do you want?” Oscar asked, changing tactics. This man had intrigued him, he looked so unlike most of the people who visited the store, and Oscar had many people visiting his store. Some good, some bad, but none this odd.

The man cleared his throat and looked up with sharp dark eyes to meet Oscar’s gaze.

“I need you to fix something”

The man’s deep voice was accented with a novel accent, something strangely reminiscent to the ones those foreigners from America had, but somehow more clipped and stern.

“As I said, we are closed”, Oscar repeated, though he wasn’t as definitive as he had been before. The things people brought in to get fixed told a lot about them, and he was curious to see what this man wanted repaired.

The man shifted his weight and tucked a parcel under his arm. Oscar hadn’t noticed it before, but the thing he had wrapped in cloth under his arm was roughly the size of a baby.

Oscar frowned, already not liking where this was going.

The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black sack, dangling the full and heavy pouch in front of him.

“If you are willing to repair this tonight, I can pay you everything in the pouch. It’s enough to pay for 4 of the real ones”, the man said tilting his head towards the little red car that sat on the shelf.

Oscar’s eyes widened, elation, surprise, and shock mingling together under his skin.

Then his eyes found the parcel under the man’s arm again and he narrowed his eyes, suspicion making him tread carefully.

“I fix things, not people. You can’t come in here expecting miracles” Oscar replied, trying to muster a authority into his voice.

He instantly thought of the peasant woman who had come running into his shop last year, with a bundle of similar size.

“Please, help him. Fix him”, she had pleaded, holding out the unbreathing, blue baby for Oscar to examine. He had told her the same thing he had told this man, ‘I fix things, not people. You can’t come in here expecting miracles’. There were plenty of doctors who were trained in that sort of thing, Oscar was not one of them. The woman had been furious but Oscar knew that a grieving mother said all kinds of things when they were upset. So, he let her scream in his store and spread all kinds of nasty rumors about him for days. For two whole weeks he had no customers that year.

The man frowned.

“Er…its not a human…it’s a..”, the man sighed and took a few steps forward, so he was standing two feet away from Oscar’s desk.

“It’s better if I show you”

The man set the bag of money at the corner of Oscar’s cluttered desk and dropped the parcel on the wooden table with a heavy ‘thud’,

With one hand, he gently started peeling away the layers of cloth. Though it was not an obvious thing at first, Oscar found it odd that he seemed to favor one arm, using his left hand for every action he made since walking in, the right one still tucked away in his coat.

When the cloth was gone to reveal the item in need of repair, Oscar looked down.

The second his eyes found the item he let out a loud gasp, his eyes widening for the second time that night and threatening to pop right out of their sockets.

Sitting on the desk before him was an item he had never seen before, a hunk of gleaming silver metal so lustrous and polished that he could see his own reflection.

Oscar looked up at the man, his mouth taking a while to form the words.

“M-may I touch it?”

The man nodded and Oscar reached his fingers to run them along the surface of the item. The metal had not been like he had expected, warm instead of cool, solid instead of flimsy foil.

It looked vaguely like…. like an arm.

Expertly smithed folds of metal overlapped against each other, creating four long articulated fingers and a solid looking thumb that branched from a thick muscular arm. Oscar used both his hands to flip the hefty arm over, stunned yet again at the hairline thin wires that ran along its surface. Engraved near the inner wrist was a symbol of a snake coiled around the face of a clock.

It was, Oscar had to admit, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, an invention so perfect that it seemed unreal, and yet, Oscar still had no idea what it was.

Oscar cleared his throat, Trying to sound cool and indifferent despite his brimming excitement.

“What is it? Who is the inventor?”, Oscar prodded, pulling out just two of the thousands of questions swimming in his head.

The man frowned, heavy dark brows pulling together. His eyebrows, Oscar noted, were incredibly dark compared to the thick golden hair sprouting from his head; this man was definitely not from here.

“I thought the charm about this place was that you didn’t ask questions”, the man pointed out.

Oscar ran his fingers once more over the glossy metal, inviting the thrill of curiosity that tickled his fingers.

“Yes, well, when an item this peculiar comes into my store, I deserve to have some questions answered. Besides, understanding how the item is supposed to work helps me figure out how it should be fixed”. Oscar added that last part for professionalism, but in truth, it was his own morbid curiosity that craved answers.

“What does it look like?”, the man mused, stepping closer so that his large frame towered over Oscar’s desk.

Oscar blinked up at the man and then back down to the item.

“An arm?”, he offered, feeling stupid for his simple answer.

“Then its an arm”, the man replied, amusement now bleeding into his stoic expression.

“…. your arm?”, Oscar prodded, looking to the man’s shoulder where his right arm had yet to make an appearance.

“Why would I be running around trying to repair someone else’s arm? Of course, its mind”

Oscar rolled his eyes, suddenly irritated at the dismissive answers he was being fed.

“Yes, well around this city we don’t usually have people running around with metal arms”, Oscar retorted. He sat back in his chair and looked the man over, eyes grazing slowly from top to bottom, then back again.

“Who are you and where are you from any way?”, Oscar quizzed, forcing his gaze to meet the man’s dark eyes.

“You weren’t supposed to ask questions. If that- he nodded to the bag of money sitting on the desk -is not enough for you, I can take my business elsewhere”, the man shot back hotly, clearly growing impatient.

A flair of anger erupted in Oscar’s chest at even the suggestion that there was another repairman in London with skills comparable to his.

“You will not find another who even comes close to me. I am the most skilled man you’ll find in all of London when it comes to repairs. Don’t you dare imply that you can get equal service elsewhere”.

Oscar’s voice rose in pitch, an anger that he hadn’t felt in a while finding its way to his tongue.

The man smiled appreciatively, as though this was the exact reaction he had been waiting to see.

“So, I’ve heard. Now, will you fix it?”, the man asked again.

Oscar glanced around the cramped, over filled space of his shop. He knew, without a doubt that he would give up all those fixes in a heartbeat if it meant he got to tinker more with this strange new artifact.

Oscar’s eyes landed on the man again, and he dared prod him with another question.

“Who is the inventor? I deserve to know who made it if I am to collaborate on his creation”

The man sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Oscar saw his shoulders drop, finally giving in to at least one of his questions.

“The inventor doesn’t concern you; you won’t know him anyway. This piece is…”, the man paused, carefully considering his words.

“This piece is from a place that is much ahead of your time. Its from a place where technology is far more developed than here”, he added.

Oscar took this opportunity to ask more questions, it seemed the man was finally giving in if only slightly.

“Okay, not a clear answer, but I’ll take it. What’s broken about it?”

The man reached out his hand- the left one of course- and ran his fingers over the long thin fingers of the metal arm.

“The fingers aren’t working, they are no longer able to move”

Oscar felt like doubling over in shock again at his words.

The fingers moved? This thing before him was a fully functioning arm? That made it even more impressive than he had previously thought. Where exactly was this man and his futuristic arm from?

“How does it work?”, Oscar asked, not even bothering to hide his excitement anymore.

“I can’t tell you that until you agree to fix it. The mechanism behind this technology is quite advanced. Only a few people are privy to that information”, the man answered in that same clipped tone. He slid the money closer to Oscar.

Oscar looked down at the bag, suddenly remembering the large sum he had been promised. He had forgotten all about the money, he had to admit. Oscar was a good businessman so he would never actually say this to the customer, but to be given the chance to repair an exclusive machine like this, he would do it free of charge. Of course, he wasn’t about to tell the stranger this after he had already went through the trouble of bagging the money for him and everything.

Before agreeing to the deal, Oscar decided to test his previous assumption with another question.

“So, you’re from America?”, Oscar tried, watching the man carefully for a reaction. The man raised his eyebrows in surprise, clearly taken aback by Oscar’s response.

“America? What are you talking about?”, the man pondered.

“You said it was from a different place, a time I am unfamiliar with. So, is this place America? Your accent sounds similar to those elitist blokes that come in here off the docks, and I’ve heard they have some pretty groundbreaking inventors over on the continent”, Oscar supplied, rambling more than necessary.

The mans expression eased and he cleared his throat.

“Er, yeah. I’m from America”, He answered. But Oscar noticed that for the first time since speaking to him in the store, the man refused to make eye contact, his eyes lingering instead on the trinkets strewn across the desk.

Ah, so he was lying. This man, it seemed, was full of secrets, most of which he seemed wary to even hint at. It was a good thing that Oscar was well practiced in the skill of not asking too many questions. Well good-ish, he was still a highly curious man, and for that, there was no cure.

“I’ll do it”, Oscar finally agreed. From the second the man had unraveled the cloth to reveal the metal arm, Oscar knew he wanted to be the one to repair it. Everything in between was just him fishing for answers to soothe his own raging curiosity.

The man blinked up at him, the cocky expression on his face indicating that yet again, Oscar had acted exactly how he had expected him to.

The man reached out his left hand for Oscar to shake, and Oscar took it awkwardly, unfamiliar with using the left hand for shaking.

“You’ve got yourself a deal Mr. Oscar Ward. You may call me Hans, now that we are well accompanied with each other. Now, I’m about to tell you how this thing works, but you are to never divulge this information to any other person. The mechanisms of this arm are to never leave this store, understood?”, the man- Hans- cautioned, embodying a professional, authoritative flair.

Oscar nodded excitedly, not bothering to think twice about the agreement he had just made. For now he was only interested in knowing more about this incredible, otherworldly invention.

“Very well then, how much do you know about electrical signals of the brain? These electrical signals are what operate the arm and allow it to obey instruction….”

When I got to the repair shop this morning I was working on a white ford raptor and it was leaking oil so I was trying to find a wrench to fix it with then it got me thinking who created the wrench and how they planned on using when they had the idea or if they meant to create a tool or if it was an accident