Mr. Oddley's Toy Shop

  “I picked up the box and examined the myriad markings on its lid. Were they artist etchings or decorations? If so, they had been done by an extremely unskilled hand. But, still, there was a certain cadence to the flow of the markings. So, perhaps, not art, but a label, some sort of writing. Maybe a message to explain its contents. I had deciphered ancient writings and symbols before, so...

  “...And it happened so quickly. So very quickly. When I opened the box and touched the crystal I felt a wave of energy flash through my hand, through my arm, and through my entire body; one side of my body at any rate. I dropped the crystal and saw it fall to the floor, where it shattered into a thousand pieces. The room began to spin and I desperately grabbed for my phone to call for help as I toppled to the ground.

  “I had lost feeling in my left hand, but somehow I managed to call for help. And somehow I managed to crawl my way back up the stairs, where I collapsed. The next thing I knew I was lying in a bed at Northern Hospital.”

  Mr. Oddley paused again and turned once more to face the kids. Three scared pale little faces stared back at him.

  “The left side of my body was weak, so even though their tests did not confirm it, the doctors insisted I had suffered a stroke. No one knew about the crystals which were still in my workshop. And I did not see the need to mention it. I know this may sound strange, but I still wanted to examine the box... much more cautiously of course.

  “My injuries could have been worse, I suppose. As a mountain climber and trail hiker, I was in pretty good shape and was out of the hospital in less than a month. Still, I had to undergo weeks of physical and occupational therapy at home. But four months later, almost to the day, I hobbled down the stairs once again to my workshop. With cane in hand, and this time wearing protective rubber gloves and a face mask.”

  The kids exploded in a flurry of questions:

  “What is that stuff?”

  “Is it safe in here?”

  “Did aliens leave it?”

  “Did you pick up all the pieces?”

  “What does this have to do with the toys?”

  “Is anybody else hungry? I’m starved.”

  The last question was Tim’s, to which everyone answered a hearty yes. Mr. Oddley phoned to have a pizza delivered. And, of course, as the clowns could have predicted, he also ordered a half gallon of milk.

  ***

  “W-what happened next?” asked Tim as he munched away on his fourth slice. The girls had stopped at one each and were amazed at his capacity. Guys!

  “Well,” answered Mr. Oddley, “First off, I used a HEPA filter vacuum to clean up, and now it is totally safe in here, as long as the rules are followed. More on that later. Right now, I want to show you something interesting. Look at this phone.”

  Mr. Oddley lifted it from its wall cradle and handed it to Maggie. “Listen,” he said.

  Molly and Tim huddled close to listen also.

  “OK, all we hear is a dial tone,” she muttered, “So?”

  “So...” answered Mr. Oddley, as he fingered the cord to show its wall end was not connected. “The phone works, but it shouldn’t. This is not a cordless or cell phone. It’s an old land-line phone, which doesn’t work unless it’s connected... yet it does.”

  The kids’ thoughts were a volatile mixture of awe and confusion as they tried to digest this impossible reality.

  “And now that I’ve given you proof, I can tell you what I found out about the box and its contents, and where it originally came from. Listen, and maybe, like me, you’ll come to accept that sometimes legends and fairy tales mask a hidden truth.”

  ***

  “According to an ancient Greek mythology, Pandora, entrusted with a box containing the world’s evils, was overcome by curiosity and opened it, thereby releasing them upon the world. That is the story that has been passed down through the ages. But like so much in folklore, there is a grain of truth to it. You see, I was able to decipher the inscription on the lid, a variation of sanskrit, and it was a warning not to open the box.

  “Its contents, crystals, were created by a tribe of people called the Pandorans. They had developed a technique for growing all types of crystals, to be used as medicines, tools for building, for hunting, for everything. The creation of crystals was their art, their religion, and their science, and it permeated every aspect of their lives. But this crystal was their crowning achievement. This crystal was an enhancer. It turned the ordinary into something very extraordinary.

  “And so, it wasn’t too long before the Pandorans were utilizing this crystal everywhere. It was touted by the ruling council as a panacea, and it was received by the people as the universal answer to all the problems and ills of the world. And for a while, that seemed to be true. For a brief moment in time this little group of now forgotten people had fashioned a paradise. And they celebrated their good fortune into the night, every night. Under the stars the happy village could be seen from miles away by a faint purple glow radiating skyward.

  “But then something happened. The people lost their will and desire to work, to achieve, to do anything for themselves. They became lazy and bored and then... they demanded more crystals... and more crystals... and more, and more, and more. The crystals made their way into the food and water supply, and into their crops. Too late it became clear to many of the elders that these crystals had become a poisonous drug and the people were addicted. Sadly, it turned out, hopelessly addicted, for in the end they destroyed themselves. The last remaining few had only time, before they too succumbed, to hide the powerful raw crystals away. Time and mother nature took care of the poisoned village and erased all evidence the Pandoran people ever existed.”

  “Is that why your toys work so well? Are you using those dangerous crystals?” asked an incredulous Molly.

  “Yes,” answered Mr. Oddley, “but dangerous is a loaded word. Fire can also be considered dangerous because it can burn you. But if handled wisely it can also heat your home and cook your food. Still, I understand your concern because it is one that I share. But you see, my little friends, this was my chance to bring a bit of magic into the world, to make people happy. I have no living relatives and I have always considered this shop to be my home and the children who visit here to be my family. Perhaps it sounds silly, but this toy shop, and the children, and their happiness, mean all the world to me.”

  “No, sir,” croaked Tim, “Not silly at all.” Maggie and Molly nodded in agreement.

  “Well then, my apprentice toymakers,” beamed Mr. Oddley, “Tomorrow is Sunday, our day off. On Monday, if you are all still willing, I will show you how to make wonderful toys, incredible toys. For now, however, go home and think about all I have told you.”

  Chapter 11

  Liza Shiftly, Private Investigator, sat in an over-stuffed office chair with her feet comfortably resting on the edge of her large mahogany desk. She filed her nails as she listened to the man who was sitting on an uncomfortable, rickety old wooden chair situated before her. That old chair is a nice touch, she thought. It gives me a feeling of power and superiority over my clients...

  ...And yet, the guy sitting there looked neither anxious nor humbled by his present physical situation. In fact, he seemed to be drawing energy from his surroundings. His eyes were slowly sucking her confidence like a blinking vacuum cleaner. So much so that by the end of their conversation his small chair seemed to swell to the size of a demonic throne, while her massive mahogany desk seemed to shrink to child’s furniture. Liza put her feet down, unrealistically considering whether or not the desk could bear her weight.

  His presence grew larger as hers shrivelled smaller, but she gulped down her uncertainty and said clearly enough, “My standard fee is $500 a day plus my expenses, and I can start the day after tomorrow.”

  “I will write you a blank check Ms. Shiftly,” replied the man, “And you will start today.”

  “But I...” began Liza, but stopped as she gazed into the cold cruel eyes of the man sitting op
posite her. “Y-yes,” she conceded. “Yes, of course, today.”

  The man rose, handed her the check and his business card, nodded, and left the office.

  You’d think a guy who makes toys would be a bit more cheerful, she thought as she looked at his card:

  UNIVERSI-TOY

  Hugh Merless, CEO

  Chapter 12

  Maggie had just gotten herself nicely settled. Fresh out of the shower, she’d hopped into her favorite comfortable old sweatshirt and sweatpants (don’t forget the fluffy slippers), and had a cup of hot cocoa steaming beside her. She was ready to dive into the latest edition of You Go Girl! magazine when her door flew open and in pranced Molly.

  Maggie glanced at her clock. “I thought we were meeting at Tim’s later,” she said. She loved Molly as a sister, but she had just gotten herself ready for some ME time... not some US time. She flipped the pages of her magazine so maybe Molly would get the hint.

  No such luck. She could tell that Molly was in one of her excited Molly moods. The only thing to do was to hear her out and wait it out. She sighed and put down her magazine. “Would you like some hot cocoa?” she asked. “I can make...”

  “Sure,” interrupted Molly, as she took the drink and gulped the whole thing down while Maggie watched in disbelief. “Wow, thanks,” she said, her hand fanning her open mouth. “That was hot but it sure felt good on a cold day like today.”

  “Anytime,” grumbled Maggie, staring at her empty mug. “So, anyway, what’s up?” she asked.

  “Well, I’ve decided I’m going to be a writer,” beamed Molly. “Isn’t that great? And I already wrote my first story. It’s called Hawkward, the Clumsy Bird. Do you want to read it?”

  Do... you... want... to... read... it? Sounds innocently enough like a question, right? Well, it really isn’t. Not in this case, anyway. Because translated into Best Friend Speak (BFS) it really means: you’re my buddy and I wrote this story, so you have to read it, and you also have to tell me it’s really good or I’ll feel bad and it will all be your fault.

  So, there was no way out of this for Maggie, except to say. “Of course, I’d love to read it!”

  Molly pulled a folded and ratty looking sheet of paper from her back pocket and tried to smooth it out before handing it over. Maggie began to read.

  Hawkward, the Clumsy Bird

  by Molly Morgan

  It’s true that Hawkward was very clumsy, but it wasn’t his fault. He had been born with two left wings. And that meant while the other young hawks were soaring high in the sky and swooping down with bullseye precision to catch their supper, Hawkward was only able to flutter around in big looping circles, unable to catch a thing, except a mouth full of leaves from the unexpectedly placed tree. Of course, all the other young birds made fun of him, but then, you know how insensitive birds can be. Especially the young ones.

  Mom and Dad knew they would obviously need to care for and feed Hawkward. That was not a problem. But they knew there would come a time when he would be on his own, and that worried them greatly. So they went to see the flock elder to ask for advice. He was an old bird who had lived many springs and had seen many chicks hatch.

  The wise old bird thought and thought. “You must learn to dig for your food,” he said at last. “There are worms and insects aplenty that will nourish you. I have spoken. Scratching out an existence is what will save you.”

  Hawkward tried. He really did, but his claws were not meant for digging through the hard clay ground. He found precious little food and his claws bled terribly.

  So his parents went to see the flock’s healer, who told them, “I have remedied this sort of situation before, and the answer is simple; to merely flip one of your wings. I have spoken. Turning things around is what will save you.”

  But then, he introduced them to the bird that had been subjected to this procedure. His right wing feathers faced against the wind and his wing folded all wrong. That bird could fly no better than he had before and he looked quite ruffled. They quickly left the healer’s office with mumblings of “Thank you for your time” and “We’ll call you.” But they knew it would be ridiculous to have Hawkward undergo a procedure that would leave him worse off than he now was. Once outside, Dad’s exact words were, “That hawk’s a quack.” Which is actually quite an insult in the world of birds.

  It seemed that they were running out of options and there was nowhere else to turn for help... until a friend of a friend of a friend told them they had heard tell of a young orphaned female bird, living in a nearby flock, who, coincidentally enough, had been born with two right wings.

  “Well, that’s all very interesting,” said Mom and Dad, “but what does that have to do with Hawkward?”

  But in desperation, and with nothing to lose, they decided to pay the young bird a visit.

  It was quite a fortunate decision, because for both Hawkward and the young female, it was love at first sight.

  Sometimes, even now, I have been told, you can spot them, if you know where to look. Two birds flying in tandem, the fastest in any flock, soaring side-by-side, and swooping down as one.

  So, you might ask, what is the moral of this story? Well, I think that Mom bird said it best. “Fate has spoken. Hawkward found his true love and that is what saved him.”

  The End.

  Maggie looked up and saw Molly’s hopeful face. She smiled a smile that was the visual equivalent of fingernails on a board and said, “Nice, but it’s kind of short, don’t you think?”

  “Well, it’s a short story,” answered Molly.

  “Yeah, but, it’s really short,” replied Maggie.

  “Again... it’s a short story,” fumed Molly. “Can I have it back?”

  “Maybe add a bit more depth?” suggested Maggie.

  “IT’S A SHORT STORY,” bellowed Molly.

  Maggie looked up at her friend. Molly’s story was actually pretty good and here she was sounding mean, and she knew it. But the bird in the story was a hawk, and she and her friends had, just this past summer, tried to save an injured hawk and had failed. Had Molly forgotten?

  Maggie hated herself for being so easily upset, and for the tears starting to well in her eyes. “Molly... it’s the Hawk,” she said. “Your story made me remember.”

  Molly paused for a moment and her mouth dropped. With trembling hands she folded her story and stuffed it back into her pocket. “I’m so sorry,” she chirped.

  “No, I am,” squeaked Maggie, hugging her friend.

  “No, I am.”

  “No, I am.”

  This advanced debating session might have gone on forever if not for Tim. (Thank you Tim). He burst into Maggie’s room and dropped to the floor, looking confused and bewildered. He completely ignored his two sobbing friends and kept repeating, “I can’t believe it. I just

  c-can’t believe it. I can’t believe it. I j-just can’t believe it.”

  The girls looked at each other and then at Tim. Finally, Maggie asked, “What can’t you believe, Tim?”

  A horror stricken Tim looked back and said, “Lord Byron is a girl. He’s really Lady Byron!”

  “Huh?” ventured a not very articulate Molly.

  Tim sighed and explained. “You know my two male turtles, Shakespeare and Lord Byron, right?” The girls nodded. “Well, Lord Byron apparently is really a girl because she laid a bunch of eggs. She’s going to be a Mom!”

  Maggie and Molly were all smiles and questions. “That’s great,” they said. “When will the babies hatch? Can we see them? Does Shakespeare look like a proud papa? Is your...”

  Tim cut them off. “So, anyway, D-dad did some research, and right now is filling some small deli containers with peat moss and vermiculite to help keep the eggs warm and safe. But I had to leave. I couldn’t s-stay and w-watch.”

  “Why not?” asked Maggie. “You’re sorta-gonna-be a Grandpa!”

  “And since I’m your girlfriend,” giggled Molly. “I’m sorta-gonna-almost-be a Grandma!”

/>   “You guys j-just don’t understand. Look, at home in my room, I sometimes walk around in my underwear. So for two years now I’ve been spied upon by a girl! It’s very upsetting.”

  Maggie and Molly’s eyes locked in disbelief... then their mouths exploded in spasms of uncontrollable laughter, as they dropped to the floor holding their sides. Tim was stunned. “Thanks for your support,” he said sarcastically. “I knew y-you’d understand.”

  Finally, the laughter subsided, and the girls, wiping tears from their eyes, were able to catch their breath.

  “That one almost killed me,” gasped Maggie.

  “I know what you mean,” wheezed Molly.

  Then they made the mistake of locking eyes again. A bad move because it started them up all over again. They fell to the ground and laughed themselves silly.

  Tim shook his head and left the room.

  ***

  When the girls finally regained their composure, Molly turned to Maggie and said, “I guess we need to apologize to old floppy drawers.” Maggie cupped her hand to her mouth, to stifle a laugh.

  Then Molly asked, “Okay, now be honest, what did you really think of my story?”

  Chapter 13

  Monday arrived with a giggle. And by then Tim had almost forgiven Maggie and Molly. He was still pretty huffy on Sunday and by Monday just the teeniest bit grumpy. It’s all a matter of degrees, you know. And since we’re talking degrees... there weren’t many of them registering on the thermometer this day. It was cold outside. Really cold. So by the time the kids reached the shop, their noses glowed like the one belonging to a very famous reindeer from a very popular holiday song. But as cold as it was, record crowds still stood their ground and waited, huddled together and shivering. Did I happen to mention that it was snowing?

  Anyway, work dragged on this day. Mr. Oddley and his assistants flew about the shop, helping customers and ringing up orders. But, the kids kept looking at the clock and thinking about their first day of toy making. They were a little happy, a little nervous, and a lot exhilarated. Wouldn’t you be if you were about to learn how to make magic toys?