Windfall, by Gary Hewitt (micro-fiction)
The debts. Jason shook his head, tossed the letter in the shredder and took a swig from an empty can.
He checked his pocket. He got little relief from the meagre coins. He needed air. He left his flat and entered the stiff night of a sleepy storm. He stumbled over a kerb. A voice from below called out.
“Yo, you want to watch where you’re going.”
He looked down. A scruffy man with an ill fitting pair of glasses, ferret moustache and machine oil hair glared up.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t see you. I’ve a few things on my mind.”
The man snorted and offered his hand. Jason helped the man to his feet.
“Try being in my position. I’ve got to sleep on the streets with no money and now no address.”
“I might be joining you soon. I got no income and bills, bills, bills to pay. I don’t read their letters anymore.”
“Well, that doesn’t work. Trust me I know. The names Bob by the way. I tell people’s fortunes. Shame I can’t help myself though but I’m sure I can help you.”
Jason inhaled sharp. The man reeked of soil and piss.
“Don’t you need a crystal ball for that?”
Bob snorted and his throat gurgled in a peculiar rasp. Jason guessed he was laughing.
“Crystal ball. You been watching too much nonsense. All I need for you to do is touch my hand and breathe a few times. I’ll do the rest. Come on, give me your hand.”
Jason took the man’s scruffy paw once more and Bob took a deep breath.
“Hmm, you got money in your family haven’t you? How come you’re so poor then?”
“My parents are always busy.”
Bob took another shaft of electric air. He indicated for Jason to follow his lead.
“You’re going to come into money real soon. I’m talking serious money that’ll help you sort out your financial problems for sure.”
“Old Bob is never wrong. You’re going to do just fine.”
Bob shook his head and withdrew his hand. He doubled over in a coughing fit and Jason asked if he was OK.
“No, I got lung cancer on top of all my other issues. Money don’t matter much to where I’m going.”
Jason offered Bob a few coins.
“Sorry I’ve got nothing more, Bob.”
Bob help up his hand.
“Keep your money son. Now get out of here and let me sleep.”
Bob shrunk down into a pile of rags. Jason went to the corner store and gathered a few cans before retreating back to his flat. Sadness gripped him when the spot where Bob sat was an empty space.
He paced to his flat, sat down and cracked open a can. He began to drift when an almighty crash rattled the door. He cursed and on his doorstep stood two grim faced officers of the law.
“Mr. Jason Pearce?”
“I’m dreadfully sorry Jason, but we need to come in. It’s about your parents.”
Diabolical understanding roared into Jason’s drunken brain. Bob told him he’d soon be wealthy.
Gary Hewitt is a raconteur who lives in a quaint little village in Kent. He has had over 70 short stories and poems published. He enjoys both writing prose and poetry. His style of writing tends to feature edgy characters and can be extremely dark. He is also a proud member of the Hazlitt Arts Centre Writers group in Maidstone. He has a website featuring his published works here: http://kingsraconteurswork.blogspot.co.uk/
Posted on July 19, 2016, in Issue 18: Mark My Words: Prophesy Signs & Portents and tagged drabble, e-zine, fantasy, flash fiction, genre blender, horror, microfiction, poetry, prophesy, science fiction, short stories, The Were-Traveler. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.