The Toy Maker

Here's my first attempt at flash fiction. I hope you guys enjoy.

The Toy Maker

It’s been three weeks since the toy maker disappeared. I ask around town. No one seems to remember the name. When I flash his photo to irritated passersby, all I get in return are blank, confused stares. His apartment has been cleaned out. In his place stands an old woman in a creaky rocking chair.

“Excuse me ma’m, but do you know the toy maker? He used to live here.” I ask the gentle old woman over the noise of a cheesy old soap opera booming from the living room.

“Is this some kind of joke?” She furrows her brow. “I’ve always lived here.”

I persist.

“I’ve always lived here," she says.

Marionettes hang from the ceiling. I take the hat off my head and press it to my chest.

"I just have a few questions." I reach into my trench coat pocket and reveal a badge.

"Come in," the woman smiles, "make yourself comfortable, detective. I'll go fix us some tea."

I take a seat on a plastic-covered chair. Porcelain dolls occupy shelves. The marionettes looked like hanged men from the ceiling. Buttons, strings, and cloth lay on a small work table. Masterfully crafted wooden clocks click from the crowded walls.

The old woman shuffles from the kitchen and hands me a small cup of tea. Mint brushes against my tongue when I sip.

"What seems to be the matter?" She says.

"A man has gone missing. He used to live here."

"I've always lived here."

"I'm confused, ma'm," my voice deepens, "because I visited him here last week."

"You look tired, deerie," the woman smiles, "would you like coffee instead?"

My patience wears thin. "Did he move?"

"Who?" She asks.

"The toy maker," I growl. "The toy maker."

"I've always lived here," she repeats. "Let me go make us some tea."

I rise from my seat. "I should be going m'am."

"You can't go," she says.

"Thank you for your time. Goodbye."

I walk to the door. Two steps, five steps, ten steps, one hundred steps, one thousand steps. I still have not reached the door. One hundred thousand steps. I am in the same place. Two hundred thousand steps. I collapse from exhaustion.

I wake on the shelf. I cannot move. I cannot speak. My eyes are my sole weapon. I look around. My hands and feet are small, wooden. A wrinkled hand grabs me from the shelf by my strings and attaches me to the ceiling. I see hundreds of marionettes.

The doorbell disrupts her daytime soap opera. A young man with a comb-over stands at the door.

"Ma'm, I'm with the police department, and I have-"

She smiles. "Come in, dear."

-Your Obsessive Chronicler,

Ryan