Rarely was the old man well enough to open up shop but today he turned the sign and let the red letters speak to the passerby’s. A small frail boy opened the door peeking his head in only to ask Mr. Howard if he sold candy. “Oh, come on in. You must not be from around here, child.” He hadn’t any treats to sell but he did keep lollipops behind the counter.
He held out the white stick topped with hard yellow sugar. The kid snatched it from his hand and headed back towards the door. “So…. Are you from around here?” The shopkeeper asked once more.
“No, I’m visiting my Aunt Sue Claiborne, and my mother told me not to talk to strangers.”
“You don’t talk to strangers, but you take candy from them, is that right?” The boy ripped the wrapper off, tossed it to the floor and popped the candy in his mouth.
Suddenly the gramophone began to play, stopping the child in his tracks. He turned slowly around. “What is that?” He asked.
“Come here, let me show you. My name is Harold by the way, Harold Howard.” The boy snickered as H.H. took him by the wrist and guided him to the two chairs placed beside the music player. “Have a seat.” He gave the boy a nudge. “What’s your name, son?” He asked.
“Phillip, my friends call me Pete.”
“P.P., then?” H.H. said, finding his turn to laugh.
“Kids like you are the reason I never had any children of my own.” The boy, drugged by sweetness, fell to the side. H.H. Cranked the Gramophone, lifted him up and placed him in the horn. The device crushed and stirred until the boy was mush.
H.H. hooked his IV to the needle on the handle and injected himself with the youthfulness he needed to keep the store open as a front. The antique of a man needed his own candy to survive.
Leesa Writes 