Welcome to this week’s installment of many micro stories, ranging in length from 100 words to 500 words.
With each story we hope to deliver a little whimsy into the lives of our readers.
TIME FLIES
“Time around here… misbehaves.”
“Pardon?”
The old man at the other end of the bar chuckled mirthlessly and took a swig of his ale, “You’ll see, young man, you’ll see.”
Rob grinned. With his greying hair and dodgy knee, it had been a long while since anyone had called him young. He lifted his glass in salute to the old man, who scowled and went back to reading his paper.
“Don’t mind Amos, he’s harmless enough,” the barman said with a grin, revealing heavily stained teeth. “How are you settling in?”
Rob was still wondering if he’d ever met anyone actually named Amos when he realised the barman was looking at him expectantly.
“Sorry, I was miles away,” he said, shaking his head. “What did you say?”
“I asked if you were settling in okay. I’m Henry, by the way.”
The two men shook hands awkwardly over the bar.
“Fantastic, thanks. The place could do with a lick of paint, but otherwise it’s in remarkable condition, considering its age. The estate agent said the house had been empty for some time?”
Henry paused—eyes narrowing—as if about to share some kind of secret. Then his expression cleared.
“Aye, I suppose it has been a while. But no matter now, eh? If you don’t mind me saying so, though, it does seem a big house for just one person.”
Rob laughed. “Oh, it’s not just me. Cathy and the kids are still back home in Seattle, sorting out the last few things over there. They’ll be joining me soon.”
“The States? Well, that explains the accent.”
“Actually, I was born over here, but we moved when I was a youngster. Folk over there think I still sound English.”
Some sixth sense made Rob glance over at Amos. The old man was glaring at him. Then he turned and looked meaningfully at the clock above the bar. Rob followed his gaze—and blinked.
“Wow! How old is that thing?”
“The Wells Clock? Dunno. It’s always been there, and I suspect it’ll be there long after we’re dead.”
“Does it work?”
Henry shrugged. “Not a clue. I’m sure it did at some point.”
“Fair enough,” said Rob. “Right, I gotta go.” From the corner of his eye, he could see Amos nodding—a humourless smile on his face.
“Give me a shout if you need anything,” said Henry.
“Thanks. I will.”
Rob opened the door—and stopped dead.
He’d gone into the pub at lunchtime. How was it now dark? He’d only been there an hour.
As he approached his new home, his concern grew. Why were the lights on?
He took out his phone, ready to call the police.
Unlocking the door, he stepped inside. “Hey!” he called. “Who’s there?”
Cathy appeared from the kitchen. “Oh, Rob, thank God it’s you. Where have you been? We’ve been worried sick.”
“What do you mean ‘Where have I been’? You weren’t due until the twelfth.”
His wife frowned.
“Rob… today is the 15th.”
Keith R. Burdon was born and raised in North Staffordshire, England, before making a daring escape across the border to Wales, where he now resides with his better half, an imaginary pet hamster, and an overactive imagination.
A writer for as long as he can remember, Keith has had numerous stories published both online and in print in recent years.
When he’s not lost in the world of words, he can be found indulging in music, binge-watching documentaries, and plotting his next road trip—perhaps to somewhere truly exotic… like Belgium.
If you enjoyed this story you can find it and more in the Hawthorn & Ash 2023 anthology.
Iron Faerie Publishing 