《Miracles for Sale, Cheap》


 Finding the Shop

    Miracles for sale, cheap


    It is in an area of town that most avoid, a tattered store with a water-stained sign, never repainted, and a brass bell more brown than bright that clangs dully when a customer walks in. The shelves stock only one product in myriad tiny variations, stacked on shelves from floor to ceiling.


    It isn¡¯t the people who need to be here who buy more than one. They know what they need, push the door open with trembling hands, search the shelves desperate and disbelieving, reach to the back of a rack beyond their means to find the yellow-stickered box near date or damaged packaging, that matches the few coins in their pocket or the scant funds they can spare.


    They go to the dingy counter at the back, face the glowering old man or the disinterested Saturday girl with her magazines and bubblegum. Some stop here, others ask the question, always a variation of ¡®Will this work?¡¯ and always get the same curt answer ¡®You buying or not?¡¯ Some buy.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    The wealthy who buy seeking money only waste theirs, for a rich man to make more is no unusual thing, but the impoverished may make rent they thought they couldn¡¯t, find a job they thought they¡¯d never have. The slightly sad buying here get a slight pick-me-up, but for the depressed the same thing can save a life. In this dank and ruined store, behind the paint-peeling frontage and crusted glass, they only sell one product: miracles.


    Browse the shelves and if you find your miracle you can buy it. If it is the miracle you need the price will never be beyond your means, but if it is the one you merely want - well, greed has a higher price. Here are Cures for Cancer, on the shelf in the corner Debts and Favours Repaid. Cheap and so rarely bought are the dusty stack of Amends and Forgiveness, despite the Buy One Get One Free offer that has been going on forever.


    It is a shop where customers might not get what they want, but they can always get what they need.

 Lost Property

    It was a quiet morning in terms of customers, if not noise. Behind the counter the shopkeeper watched with one eye glinting over his newspaper as he heard the noise of another tin being pulled out from under the rack and placed aside. In the dusty security mirror, the pair of legs were clearly visible, sticking out from under the corner shelf at the very back of the shop. With some wriggling, the boy backed out, rotated on his stomach to bring the can he held into the light, checked the label and added it to his precarious and increasingly high discard pile. He spun back, pushing himself on his hands, and vanished to the waist back under the shelves. One of his feet waved far too close to the rocking pile of tins, drawing an irate rustle of newspaper and an irritated cough.


    Cringing, the boy reached back. One by one, the tins were replaced on the floor under the shelf. Satisfied he wasn¡¯t going to make a mess, the shopkeeper smiled thinly and then glowered at the screech of heavy tins being pushed across the hardwood under the shelf. He shook his head and turned the page.


    The noise stopped. Sticking out from under the shelf, the boy¡¯s legs went still. Then he began to shimmy his way out, backing out on his belly as he pushed with one hand. The other was clutching a tin tight to his chest. Sitting on the floor he put the remains of his discard pile back with more enthusiasm than organisation, pulling his own gear close awkwardly as he turned the tin and read the label again. With a whoop that drew another annoyed cough, he pushed himself to his feet, making for the counter with all the speed he could.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    The tin was pushed up and onto the counter. A set of change followed, pushed by fingers that presumably belonged to the mop of brown hair barely visible over the counter¡¯s edge.


    The shopkeeper lowered his paper, counting the copper pieces out one at a time. Satisfied, he took his time about opening the ancient till, and dropping the coins in. Only once he had shut the heavy till drawer with a satisfying clunk, did he push the tin back across the counter. The boy seized it, ripping the top off with a happy yell. Holding it up in one hand he ran to the door, pulling it opening and tearing out into the street.


    ¡°Mum! Look what I-¡± Behind him metal clattered to the floor and the shopkeeper rose to his feet.


    ¡°Hey, take your litter home with-¡± The jangle of the door closing cut him off.


    Grumbling, the shopkeeper went to the front of the counter and picked up the leg braces. Opening the door to the already overflowing lost property cupboard he tossed them in and slammed the door before the whole pile could fall on him. He wished customers would have the courtesy to come back for their things. They never did.

 Monkey鈥檚 Paw

    ¡°You sonofabitch! You wrecked my life!¡± The door slammed into the wall hard enough to knock the bell chime off, as a young man stormed to the counter. His friend picked up the bell, abortively tried to hook it back on, failed, and followed him. The shopkeeper stood up, scowling, and pointed to the sign behind him.


    ¡°No refunds!¡±


    ¡°My family¡¯s dead!¡± Several customers¡¯ heads turned as he slammed an ornate box on the counter. ¡°My family¡¯s dead and you think I want a refund?¡± His fist raised as his voice reached a scream. His friend caught his arm.


    ¡°Matt, stop!¡±


    ¡°No! I want-¡±


    ¡°Matt, it wasn¡¯t this shop.¡± The man staggered, cut off mid-sentence and tried to pull his hand free.


    ¡°But-¡±


    ¡°Where¡¯s the antiques? You said it was a younger guy behind the counter.¡± The man, presumably Matt, looked round, finally taking in the stacks of grubby white boxes and grimy paint cans that filled the shelves.


    ¡°But it has to be here,¡± he said, sounding lost. ¡°We¡¯ve tried everywhere else.¡±


    ¡°And you couldn¡¯t find the right shop,¡± the shopkeeper said, unimpressed. ¡°So you came storming into mine.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re really terribly sorry,¡± the friend said. "It''s been a rough time." The shopkeeper just grunted, straightening his stool and sitting down as he opened his newspaper with a snap of pages.


    Matt simply folded, sinking down, his back against the counter. His head was buried in his hands, muffling his voice.


    ¡°So what am I going to do?¡± he said through crossed arms. ¡°I can¡¯t get them back, and it¡¯s still out there. I can hear it.¡± The shopkeeper ignored him, reaching over the ornate box to take a white cardboard box from another customer, ringing it up and passing her her change. He had to stretch to do it, but Matt was oblivious. ¡°The scratching every night as it gets closer.¡±


    ¡°Not my problem.¡± The shopkeeper glowered, pulling his stool across nearer to the counter and sitting down.


    ¡°But maybe, maybe it came from the same place as your-¡±


    ¡°No chance,¡± the shopkeeper said scornfully, picking up the ornate box and pitching it into the rubbish bin by the counter. ¡°You bought a wish. We only sell miracles here.¡± Satisfied his counter was clear again, he reached down for his newspaper.Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    ¡°It¡¯d take a miracle to-¡± Matt''s mind caught up with his words, and he stopped short, looking up at his friend.


    ¡°You think it will work?¡± the other man said with sudden hope.


    ¡°We have to try. Come on!¡± He scrambled to his feet. ¡°There must be something.¡±


    ¡°You want an undo,¡± the shopkeeper advised, turning the newspaper page.


    ¡°Yes. If I¡¯d known, I¡¯d never have bought it.¡± The pair started searching the stacks with more enthusiasm than sense.


    ¡°Money? Won''t help. They''ve got a Karma over here?" His friend asked.


    ¡°That won''t bring back the dead." Matt lifted up another box. ¡°To know then what I know now?" They were making a collassal racket, and the other customer in the store was beginning to look nervous. The shopkeeper glowered.


    ¡°Oi!" The shopkeeper called, and they both jumped almost guiltily. "Something to undo the harm?¡± Before they could make more of a mess of the shop, the shopkeeper dumped a large tin double-handed onto the counter. The words ¡®make it not have happened¡¯ were written on the side. The pair looked at it, and Matt''s jaw dropped.


    ¡°I''d do anything," he murmured, silently wetting dry lips.


    ¡°Then pay for it," the shopkeeper said, exasperated.


    ¡°How much?¡±


    ¡°Two hundred and seventy-one thousand, nine hundred and fifty-eight pounds and seven pence.¡± The man stared.


    ¡°But that¡¯s all I¡¯ve got left from...¡± he trailed off. The shopkeeper shrugged a laconic shoulder.


    ¡°You tried getting something for nothing. How¡¯d that work out for you?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no chance of a discount?¡± Matt ventured. The unimpressed stare turned from him to the store¡¯s policy board ¡®No Discounts, No Refunds, No Exchanges¡¯ and back to him. He was honest enough to cringe.


    ¡°They¡¯ve got a ¡®make it better¡¯ over here for a tenner,¡± his friend called out helpfully from further in the stacks. Matt sighed.


    ¡°And this will get my family back?¡± The answer was another laconic shrug.


    ¡°Take it or leave it,¡± the shopkeeper said. The customer lowered his head, snatched his card out of his wallet and held it out. The shopkeeper glowered.


    ¡°Cash only.¡±


    ¡°Shit. The ATM doesn¡¯t go that high.¡±


    ¡°Not my problem.¡±


    ¡°Ok, wait.¡± Matt braced himself, stripped the Rolex off his wrist and dropped it on the counter. ¡°It¡¯s real.¡±


    There was no response, just a steady glance from the watch back to him. His car keys followed, then another set, then the house keys. The shopkeeper finally spoke.


    ¡°You¡¯re short four sixty-three.¡± The man dug into his pockets, dropping change on the counter.


    ¡°Four. Sixty-two, sixty - oh come on dammit - sixty-three.¡± The shopkeeper took his time counting it back painfully slowly before, with a final glower, he opened the till and dropped the keys and the change in. The tin was pushed across the counter and snatched up with almost indecent haste.


    ¡°Come on, let''s see if it worked.¡± He listened for a second, shook his head as if he couldn¡¯t hear something he had grown too used to, and ran out with his friend hot on his heels. The fallen door-chime scraped on the ground as the door closed behind them.


    The shopkeeper looked after them for a long irritated moment. Then he looked down and stamped once, hard. Something crunched underfoot.

 Quiet Time

    The big match kicked off tomorrow, and according to the headlines on the shopkeeper¡¯s newspaper, riots would kick off with it. He flicked disinterestedly over the sport as the door-chime jangled, admitting yet another of the groups of young men and women who had been drifting in all week.


    The ¡®pools win¡¯ and ¡®my team¡¯ were conspicuously empty, but they still asked. Two days again he¡¯d finally harrumphed his way over to them and stuck signs on both shelves: ¡®No more until next month, don¡¯t even ask¡¯.


    It didn¡¯t stop them asking, because customers obviously couldn¡¯t read, but it gave him something else to be rude to them about when they did.


    This morning¡¯s group were slightly different, more clean cut, splitting up, and pretending not to know each other as they looked at the shelves. They¡¯d been drifting in and out all morning without buying anything.


    Eventually one of them took the plunge, sidling up to the counter and nervously pushing a small box across it. The shopkeeper checked the box - a ¡®Commendation¡¯ - and rang it up without comment. He held out his hand without looking. Notes crinkled into it, and then there were footsteps and the door chimed closed.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    As another set of footsteps approached the counter he grudgingly looked up over his paper. A ¡®Have Courage¡¯ followed, cheaper than a commendation and just as surreptitiously bought.


    Fifteen minutes later the door chimed again, for a snatched up and hastily presented ¡®Do a Good Job¡¯. The ¡®Help People¡¯ an hour after that was cheaper than the two ¡®Public Respect¡¯ tins that preceded it, bought by men in sharp suits in a car with tinted windows.


    Two officers strolling in off their beat, looking as casual as uniformed police could, pocketed and paid for an ¡®Escape Unscathed¡¯ and ¡®Protect People¡¯ for a few pounds each. One of them had been in earlier, but this time he was buying.


    The well-dressed woman shadowed by her bodyguard left her driver outside, but the blue light on the car was visible through the dirt-streaked shop window and her face was in the paper reassuring the public. The ¡®Be Approved Of¡¯ she picked up was expensive, but the shopkeeper didn¡¯t care.


    Finally at a quarter to six, the door chimed again as the shopkeeper was getting ready to close up. The older man who stepped in, greying and rotund, was in full if rather rumpled police uniform. With a nod and a respectful tip of the hat to the shopkeeper, he went straight to the neglected shelves at the back and picked up a small box.


    ¡°Sorry I¡¯m late. Got caught behind the desk.¡± The shopkeeper humphed and rang the box up.


    ¡°That for tomorrow?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. It¡¯s going to be a long shift, and the town doesn¡¯t need the trouble.¡± The shopkeeper nodded incuriously and handed the small box back.


    ¡°One Quiet Day. Fifty pence.¡±