​The Ferris wheel creaked and groaned as it spun, defying gravity. As a kid in the southwest, I had a love/hate thing with Ferris wheels. But something was alluring about seeing the world perched atop a rickety wheel held up by bars of steel and willed to turn on demand.
Pushing memories aside, I headed for the ticket booth. A kid barely old enough to shave looked at me like I was crazy and handed me my stub in return for what I thought was too much money.
The line to board the contraception consisted mainly of parents and small kids. My contact said he would be wearing a blue windbreaker and a Bills ballcap accompanied by his small kids. He was right about the Bills cap, as there are few Bills fans in this city. I spotted him, waiting in line, and slipped in line behind him. I sat in the seat behind him and his kids, two small boys who were excited to have a day with Dad.
As the wheel groaned and came to life, the baskets swung as they gained altitude. I had been watching the wheel most of the morning and timed out about how long each turn took and how many turns it took, so I knew exactly how long I had. Leaning forwards, I shouted over wheels creaking, screaming kids, and the howling wind.
“Robert.”
He turned and looked at move over his shoulder sideways. “Don’t turn around.” He sat straight in the wooden carriage seat. ‘You came.”
“I said I would. You have it?”
“Yeah.” In between keeping his two kids sitting still in their seats, he managed to fish a long envelope from inside his jacket. He held it at almost shoulder level. I glanced around, then reached and snatched it from his hand and slipped it into my jacket.
“I’ll contact you again later. You enjoy the rest of your day with your kids.”
By now, the wheel was on its final spin, and the kids were getting bored and antsy. They weren’t the only ones who wanted off this god-awful machine. When It finely settled down, I waited until Robert and his kids were out of sight, and I headed for the nearest coffee shop, ordered an espresso, and sat down in a dark corner. I opened the envelope.
The old black and white photos revealed alien ships shot down in Roswell, New Mexico, over fifty years ago.
I already knew that.
Robert, one of our best operatives, wouldn’t tell me who had the photos, but he promised they would no longer be an issue. Without corroboration, the photos were useless. The government would claim someone faked the photos.
I put them back in the envelope and smiled. As I finished my drink, I booked a flight to New Mexico. My grandfather will be excited to see some old family pictures.

​The soft tick-tock of the antique pocket watch, even when nestled in his vest pocket, haunts me today. The last time I’d heard the ticking was an eon ago. At least it seemed that long, but it was more like a century ago when the watch was new.

Hearing it now, ticking softly in his pocket, brought back memories. I knew the old man couldn’t hear it. However, with my acute hearing, I could hear the blood pulsating through his veins, so the sound of the ticking watch was loud to me.

I considered waking the old man up, but instead, I gently slid my fingers into the vest pocket containing the watch. Once it was in my hands, I examined it. The fancy scrollwork on the case had held up well, considering the handling it had over the last hundred years.

 Feeling the slight vibration of the mainspring rotating inside the watch, I closed my eyes, and I was back in France with him for a moment, but of course, he didn’t know I was there. 

It was time I returned him to his rightful time and place. His impact on history diminished if gone too long, creating changes we couldn’t afford to happen. As I was about to wake him up, I sensed a presence in my mind. 

“Please, can’t you just let him be?” 

Turning around, I found her standing in the doorway. I knew what she wanted.

Approaching her, I held out the pocket watch. She looked at it. “It’s dying” As she spoke, I felt the mainspring start to slow down, and the ticking became less regular.

I nodded. “So is he. He needs to be where he can live.” Neither of us had said a word, but the thoughts bounced back and forth between us.

His time was fast running out. If I didn’t get him where he belonged, he would cease to exist.

“Can I go too?”

“You know the answer to that. You shouldn’t have brought him here. I have to return him as a young man to his proper time to do the work he must do during the war. If you’re there, even if only as a figment of his imagination, he’ll never completely throw himself into his work.” 

She nodded and handed me the watch. I wound it and placed it back in his pocket. This time I gently shook his shoulder.

“Leon, It’s time to go home again.”  He stood up and allowed me to guide him through the doorway where she had stood. 

On the other side, we were back in France. I glanced at the newspaper a kid selling them on the street shoved in my face. It was 1939, and Leon was where he needed to be. As he walked into his bakery, I slipped back through the doorway and reappeared in my time. It wouldn’t be long before I would have to rescue another wayward time traveler.

Leon was a character from a Monthly Story Called Leon's Bread

​Mr. Pritchard lived at 614 and ¾ Wellington Lane.

Everyone knew old Mr. Prichard, he was the old guy who lived in the flat in the alley behind Wellington Lane, just off Penny Lane. But no one ever wrote about Wellington Lane, so most folks don’t know it's there.

Old man Pritchard as the kids called him behind his back was an odd sort. He never said much, but always seemed to know who everyone was. No one remembers talking to him or telling him who they were, but he knew them by sight and used their names.

 In the summer, he sat outside by his door in a rickety lawn chair drinking tea. The temperature could be boiling hot, he’d have his tea on the little table next to his chair, a cigar in one hand, smoke whiffling up around his beat-up Panama hat. I ventured over to say hi one day. He looked at me. “Tea?”

“Sure, why not?”  I sat next to him and sipped Earl Gray Tea from a china cup older than me. 

 He didn't say anything for a spell, then quietly spoke.

“Roberts, you know I saw you leaving last night.”  He let it hang there.

“Yeah so? I was going out to meet a friend.”

“Her name is Elizabeth.” he finished. I almost dropped my teacup.

“Ah, how’d you know..?” 

“That, my friend, is my secret. What you need to know is I also know about the ten million you stole from the bank where you work.”

 That time I did spill my tea.

“UH, What are you talking about, How do you know I work at a bank?”

“There’s not much around here I don’t know. For example, Lori, your wife thinks you still owe money on the house. You paid it off last month with money from the bank. And the kids who call me Old Man Pritchard are in for a rude awaking when I tell the cops about the drugs they're dealing to the kids on the other blocks.”

 I knew some of those kids were up to no good but never put it together.

 I sat my cup down on his little table before I broke it.

 “Sir, how do you know all this stuff?”

 “If I told you that, I wouldn’t be a secret. Rest assured I don’t care about your dalliance with Elizabeth, or the money the bank will find missing soon. What I do care about is relocating to a warm sunny place to spend my twilight years.”

“So? What do you want?” I wasn’t sure what I was asking.

‘You are going to find me a villa on the south of France, and I’m disappearing with about a million of your ten million, and you’ll never see me again.

A week later Old man Pritchard mysteriously disappeared. At the same time, an anonymous call to the police resulted in the drug-selling gang being rounded up by the drug squad, clearing the street of a lot of brats. 

As for me, the bank received another anonymous call, and an unpopular coworker was arrested for embezzling the money. I continued to live at 615 Wellington Lane with Lois, and Elizabeth moved into 614 and ¾ Wellington Lane. Life was good.