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I used to have a son, you know. Twenty-something years ago, I became a father. I remember little about his mother; other than her being not particular pretty, but very sweet. I was young back then, walked away without glancing back, and I've never seen him since. God only knows how they are this day.
Now I'm the proud owner of my own department store. It's very small; I sell odds and ends as well as food. The way the shelves are positioned, you can only ever see the customer when they reach the counter. I needn't worry about anything getting stolen, though; there are very few visitors, only the occasional customer who accidentally stumble upon my humble abode behind the sea of large supermarkets or those that regularly shop here.
My shop is not the crux of this story though; instead one peculiar fellow, one of the few (in fact, sole) regulars who visits me. The sole person I have told the tale of my lost son, and even more peculiarly, shares my sons name - James.
I've never met anyone like him before; every day he would come into my shop, 4:24 on the dot, and every day he buy something different. I would just sit behind my counter awaiting the familiar door clank, he would wander in, every time knowing it would be his face peering around the shelves. He would eye up the various products lining the shop for some time before coming to a decision, but I always knew what he was going to choose. He would try to trick me on occasion, looking on one shelf and suddenly choosing something completely different, he would even reach for the few antiques available sometimes. But I always knew what he would choose.
And from then on, my day would be perfect. The very first time he visited, moments afterwards an antique dealer crossed my shop and paid me a vast sum (but as a private transaction, I will keep the exact price to myself) for an old clock that had been dusting on the side for years. Day after day, he would arrive, take his choice, and grind my bad day into a good one.
The most peculiar of this peculiar fellows peculiarities, though, is that he truly never seemed to notice he would arrive here at the same time, every day. I pointed it out to him a few times, but I was met with a confused look, and James would flatly deny my claim. I often wondered if it was fate that brought him here at the same time, day in day out, spreading joy in my life like picture-book fable.
And then, one day, he didn't come. The twenty-fourth minute of the sixteenth hour rung clear in my ears, I waited for the footsteps to approach. Nothing. I shuffled out from behind my counter to see where he was. No one, wind as still as the silence in my mind, just a blank page. Needless to say, there was no joy, there was no perfection, just a hole.
The next day, he was back. Same as always, I told him I noticed he wasn't here the day before, and came out with his most peculiar of peculiars. From a puzzled expression, James said he had never been here before. Of course, I put this down to just being one of his peculiars, and carried on as normal, awaiting him day after day. And it slowly died. Inconsistent, unto eventual disappearance. I haven't seen him since.
I wonder if it's time I retired, I have nothing left here. This little unknown has become an obscure in a town of obscurity, obscured from the world. Just as James' peculiars made me want to live, this places obscurity does the opposite.
Maybe I should renovate and sell up; fix that broken clock that hasn't ticked a tock in years, move the shelves for a new owner, and be on my way.
It's shame you had to go James. It's a shame you had to leave my like I did you.
Now I'm the proud owner of my own department store. It's very small; I sell odds and ends as well as food. The way the shelves are positioned, you can only ever see the customer when they reach the counter. I needn't worry about anything getting stolen, though; there are very few visitors, only the occasional customer who accidentally stumble upon my humble abode behind the sea of large supermarkets or those that regularly shop here.
My shop is not the crux of this story though; instead one peculiar fellow, one of the few (in fact, sole) regulars who visits me. The sole person I have told the tale of my lost son, and even more peculiarly, shares my sons name - James.
I've never met anyone like him before; every day he would come into my shop, 4:24 on the dot, and every day he buy something different. I would just sit behind my counter awaiting the familiar door clank, he would wander in, every time knowing it would be his face peering around the shelves. He would eye up the various products lining the shop for some time before coming to a decision, but I always knew what he was going to choose. He would try to trick me on occasion, looking on one shelf and suddenly choosing something completely different, he would even reach for the few antiques available sometimes. But I always knew what he would choose.
And from then on, my day would be perfect. The very first time he visited, moments afterwards an antique dealer crossed my shop and paid me a vast sum (but as a private transaction, I will keep the exact price to myself) for an old clock that had been dusting on the side for years. Day after day, he would arrive, take his choice, and grind my bad day into a good one.
The most peculiar of this peculiar fellows peculiarities, though, is that he truly never seemed to notice he would arrive here at the same time, every day. I pointed it out to him a few times, but I was met with a confused look, and James would flatly deny my claim. I often wondered if it was fate that brought him here at the same time, day in day out, spreading joy in my life like picture-book fable.
And then, one day, he didn't come. The twenty-fourth minute of the sixteenth hour rung clear in my ears, I waited for the footsteps to approach. Nothing. I shuffled out from behind my counter to see where he was. No one, wind as still as the silence in my mind, just a blank page. Needless to say, there was no joy, there was no perfection, just a hole.
The next day, he was back. Same as always, I told him I noticed he wasn't here the day before, and came out with his most peculiar of peculiars. From a puzzled expression, James said he had never been here before. Of course, I put this down to just being one of his peculiars, and carried on as normal, awaiting him day after day. And it slowly died. Inconsistent, unto eventual disappearance. I haven't seen him since.
I wonder if it's time I retired, I have nothing left here. This little unknown has become an obscure in a town of obscurity, obscured from the world. Just as James' peculiars made me want to live, this places obscurity does the opposite.
Maybe I should renovate and sell up; fix that broken clock that hasn't ticked a tock in years, move the shelves for a new owner, and be on my way.
It's shame you had to go James. It's a shame you had to leave my like I did you.
Curious little tale but smooth. It made me feel a little saddened.
Thanks. :)
The title means nothing, by the way.
The title means nothing, by the way.
Peculiar :)
The title suggests a dream. Reminds me of the Twilight Zone. Mundane yet otherwordly, ghostly. Interesting.
The title suggests a dream. Reminds me of the Twilight Zone. Mundane yet otherwordly, ghostly. Interesting.
I used to have a son, you know. Twenty-something years ago, I became a father. I remember little about his mother; other than her being not particular pretty, but very sweet. I was young back then, walked away without glancing back, and I've never seen him since. God only knows how they are this day.
Now I'm the proud owner of my own department store. It's very small; I sell odds and ends as well as food. The way the shelves are positioned, you can only ever see the customer when they reach the counter. I needn't worry about anything getting stolen, though; there are very few visitors, only the occasional customer who accidentally stumble upon my humble abode behind the sea of large supermarkets or those that regularly shop here.
My shop is not the crux of this story though; instead one peculiar fellow, one of the few (in fact, sole) regulars who visits me. The sole person I have told the tale of my lost son, and even more peculiarly, shares my sons name - James.
I've never met anyone like him before; every day he would come into my shop, 4:24 on the dot, and every day he buy something different. I would just sit behind my counter awaiting the familiar door clank, he would wander in, every time knowing it would be his face peering around the shelves. He would eye up the various products lining the shop for some time before coming to a decision, but I always knew what he was going to choose. He would try to trick me on occasion, looking on one shelf and suddenly choosing something completely different, he would even reach for the few antiques available sometimes. But I always knew what he would choose.
And from then on, my day would be perfect. The very first time he visited, moments afterwards an antique dealer crossed my shop and paid me a vast sum (but as a private transaction, I will keep the exact price to myself) for an old clock that had been dusting on the side for years. Day after day, he would arrive, take his choice, and grind my bad day into a good one.
The most peculiar of this peculiar fellows peculiarities, though, is that he truly never seemed to notice he would arrive here at the same time, every day. I pointed it out to him a few times, but I was met with a confused look, and James would flatly deny my claim. I often wondered if it was fate that brought him here at the same time, day in day out, spreading joy in my life like picture-book fable.
And then, one day, he didn't come. The twenty-fourth minute of the sixteenth hour rung clear in my ears, I waited for the footsteps to approach. Nothing. I shuffled out from behind my counter to see where he was. No one, wind as still as the silence in my mind, just a blank page. Needless to say, there was no joy, there was no perfection, just a hole.
The next day, he was back. Same as always, I told him I noticed he wasn't here the day before, and came out with his most peculiar of peculiars. From a puzzled expression, James said he had never been here before. Of course, I put this down to just being one of his peculiars, and carried on as normal, awaiting him day after day. And it slowly died. Inconsistent, unto eventual disappearance. I haven't seen him since.
I wonder if it's time I retired, I have nothing left here. This little unknown has become an obscure in a town of obscurity, obscured from the world. Just as James' peculiars made me want to live, this places obscurity does the opposite.
Maybe I should renovate and sell up; fix that broken clock that hasn't ticked a tock in years, move the shelves for a new owner, and be on my way.
It's shame you had to go James. It's a shame you had to leave my like I did you.
Now I'm the proud owner of my own department store. It's very small; I sell odds and ends as well as food. The way the shelves are positioned, you can only ever see the customer when they reach the counter. I needn't worry about anything getting stolen, though; there are very few visitors, only the occasional customer who accidentally stumble upon my humble abode behind the sea of large supermarkets or those that regularly shop here.
My shop is not the crux of this story though; instead one peculiar fellow, one of the few (in fact, sole) regulars who visits me. The sole person I have told the tale of my lost son, and even more peculiarly, shares my sons name - James.
I've never met anyone like him before; every day he would come into my shop, 4:24 on the dot, and every day he buy something different. I would just sit behind my counter awaiting the familiar door clank, he would wander in, every time knowing it would be his face peering around the shelves. He would eye up the various products lining the shop for some time before coming to a decision, but I always knew what he was going to choose. He would try to trick me on occasion, looking on one shelf and suddenly choosing something completely different, he would even reach for the few antiques available sometimes. But I always knew what he would choose.
And from then on, my day would be perfect. The very first time he visited, moments afterwards an antique dealer crossed my shop and paid me a vast sum (but as a private transaction, I will keep the exact price to myself) for an old clock that had been dusting on the side for years. Day after day, he would arrive, take his choice, and grind my bad day into a good one.
The most peculiar of this peculiar fellows peculiarities, though, is that he truly never seemed to notice he would arrive here at the same time, every day. I pointed it out to him a few times, but I was met with a confused look, and James would flatly deny my claim. I often wondered if it was fate that brought him here at the same time, day in day out, spreading joy in my life like picture-book fable.
And then, one day, he didn't come. The twenty-fourth minute of the sixteenth hour rung clear in my ears, I waited for the footsteps to approach. Nothing. I shuffled out from behind my counter to see where he was. No one, wind as still as the silence in my mind, just a blank page. Needless to say, there was no joy, there was no perfection, just a hole.
The next day, he was back. Same as always, I told him I noticed he wasn't here the day before, and came out with his most peculiar of peculiars. From a puzzled expression, James said he had never been here before. Of course, I put this down to just being one of his peculiars, and carried on as normal, awaiting him day after day. And it slowly died. Inconsistent, unto eventual disappearance. I haven't seen him since.
I wonder if it's time I retired, I have nothing left here. This little unknown has become an obscure in a town of obscurity, obscured from the world. Just as James' peculiars made me want to live, this places obscurity does the opposite.
Maybe I should renovate and sell up; fix that broken clock that hasn't ticked a tock in years, move the shelves for a new owner, and be on my way.
It's shame you had to go James. It's a shame you had to leave my like I did you.