Fred Aiken Writing

I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU YOU WEREN’T ALLOWED IN HERE ANYMORE.

I THOUGHT I MIGHT TRY MY LUCK.

BOY—YOU PICKED THE WRONG PET SHOP TO STEP INTO.

I’M NOT SO CERTAIN ABOUT THAT.

The pet-store owner braced himself, gripping a mop in his white-knuckled, arthritic hands. His face scrunched up more than a sponge wrung out to dry. 

YOU’RE GETTING OLD, OLD MAN. YOU MIGHT AS WELL GIVE UP RIGHT HERE AND NOW.

I’M NOT TOO OLD TO SWEEP YOU OUTTA HERE.

The boy walked out with a kitten under his shirt. The owner’s cataracts prevented him from noticing.