The Used Car Salesman

Photo of a blue volkswagon combi van used as a prompt for a microfiction story

Photo by Annie Theby on Unsplash

She paid in cash, said it was her savings and emptied a beaten up old suitcase on my desk; between you and me, I usually let people feel they’re getting away with a deal, play along with their haggling and knock off five hundred or so and everybody’s happy, but she wasn’t having none of that—couldn’t wait to dump the cash and drive off with the combi, but then said something about not being able to drive a stick and walked off.

Fred rubbed the stubble on his chin—the bristling of the short hairs gave him pleasure—as he waited for the officer to catch up with her note taking— So why the questions? Was she some kind of crim? Hadn’t seen her around these parts till…

The other officer—carrying a sizable black plastic bag—walked up behind Fred, cutting him off mid-sentence You might want to have a lawyer present before you do any more talking. Frederick Ainsley Bartlett, you are under arrest for…

 

Inspired by Sonya’s Three Line Tales, Week Eighty. I really did’t know where this one was going and feel like it was a bit of a cop out (no pun intended) ending, but maybe I’ll continue it. I so often add half baked promises at the bottom of my posts haha. If you have any thoughts on what Frederick is getting arrested for, please do share…

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Falling

Mum always tells me to be grateful for all we have. When I go to school, John Reinhart and Tristan Andrews pick on me for all we haven’t got. I’ve seen those episodes of A Current Affair where they talk about the “battlers” in the worst streets, in the worst suburbs and it always makes me sad that whatever they show is not as bad as here. Mr. Pauley used to tell me that the neighbourhood was once respectable, with hard working people, who looked out for one another and took pride in their homes. Him and Mrs. Pauley have lived here for over 40 years. Well, had for him. He’s been dead for three months – I know cause the day of his funeral was the day of Tristan’s 12th birthday party at the go kart track that I wasn’t invited to. Seeing as every other kid I know was at that party, I had no one to hang out with and was sitting here on the verandah like I am now when the creepy looking car came by with Mr. Pauley’s coffin in the back. Continue reading