Mr. Miowki

Date: 10/19/2025

Kev from work tells me about the flea market. Says it’s “a hidden gem,” which, from Kev, could mean anything — a car boot behind a Greggs or some post-apocalyptic bazaar in a warehouse that smells faintly of rust and regret. Turns out, it’s the latter. The place is massive. Absolutely teeming. Rows of stalls stretch into the distance, lost in a haze of chatter, dust, and frying onions. The air hums with the scent of old paper, polish, and the peculiar sadness of things once loved. Every table glints with the dull charm of nostalgia: brass candlesticks, chipped china, medals that no longer mean anything to anyone. And then — Charlotte from work. She waves, her bracelet clinking. “Have you paid?” she asks. I stare at her, blank. “It’s fifty quid to get in,” she says, leaning in. “Cash only.” Fifty. Quid. For a flea market. I laugh, expecting her to join in. She doesn’t. I pat my pockets. Not a coin. Not even a crumpled tenner. I’m like royalty that way — no loose change, just misplaced confidence. So I do what any self-respecting cheapskate would: I slip through. Blend with the crowd. A silent interloper among the bargain-hunters. It’s a shame, really — the stalls are full of treasures. A taxidermy squirrel in a pirate hat. A teacup big enough to drown in. Stacks of Polaroids, faces frozen mid-laughter at something just out of frame. I’m still fuming about the entry fee. Fifty pounds. What are they selling — Louis Vuitton crucifixes? Charlotte disappears into the crowd. I drift into a large hall where the air is thicker, quieter. Dust motes hang suspended like tiny suns. That’s when I see them: wicker baskets, huge ones, lined up in a neat row. A crowd presses around them. Something in the scene pulls me closer. I elbow my way to the front — and stop cold. Inside the baskets are the contents of my Uncle John’s flat. His map of Ireland, edges curling. His dinner plates, bright and mismatched. His reading glasses, held together with tape. “What the heck,” I whisper. I dig deeper. Another basket: his Corrs CDs, an Irish flag, that ghastly yellow washing-up bowl. A silver goblet engraved To my best mate John. Good luck, Frank. I raise an eyebrow. And there, half-buried in the wicker, I see it — a wire flamingo, rusted, stoic, its metal feathers dulled by years of weather. Mr. Miowki. Uncle John’s flamingo friend. My throat tightens. I storm up to the stallholder — a thin woman with nicotine fingers and eyes like wet stones. “Who gave you permission to sell this?” I demand. “This is my uncle’s stuff.” She blinks. “These are my belongings.” Lies. I start pulling everything out — the plates, the flag, the goblet. Mr. Miowki tucked under my arm like a wounded bird. “Excuse me!” she shouts. “You’re stealing!” “You’d know a thing or two about that,” I mutter. Then comes the static, the sharp beep of radios. Security. I run. My heart hammering. Mr. Miowki rattling against my ribs. Before I’m caught flamingo-handed, the scene folds in on itself, and suddenly I’m somewhere else entirely. Now I’m in the van with Charlotte. We’re out on delivery. One large package in the back, shifting softly. It’s a cat. A real one. He’s warm and alive, pawing at me for attention. His fur hums beneath my hand — a small, perfect pulse of life. The address we’ve got leads us to a wreck of a house — roof gone, walls caved in. The sky pours through like water. “I usually hide their parcels in a safe place,” Charlotte says. I stare at the ruins. “Define safe?” “Behind the crumbling wall,” she calls from the van, pointing at a mound of bricks. Before I can move, the cat leaps from the box and bolts into the rubble. Two dogs appear — one tall and sleek, the other small and sharp, barking like it owns the place. The little one looks exactly like Tia, my mum’s old Jack Russell. Dead five years, and here she is, snarling in the sunlight. The cat darts between shadows, yowling, terrified. Dust rises like smoke. “We have to help him!” I shout. Charlotte just shrugs. “There’s nothing we can do.” The world goes still. Even the wind holds its breath. The cat vanishes into the ruins, and the dogs fade after it, until the silence swallows everything. When I look down, my hands are empty. No flamingo. No cat. Just dust clinging to my palms. I look back at the ruins — but they’re gone too. The street stretches out blank, endless, as if nothing ever stood there. And in that silence, from somewhere I can’t name, I hear it — the faint creak of metal. I turn. Mr. Miowki stands at the far end of the road, one leg bent, his wire feathers shivering in the wind. His rusted beak tilts, as though he recognises me. For a moment I think he’s smiling — a thin, knowing curl of metal, catching the light like a blade. Then his head moves. Just a fraction, sharp and unnatural. The sound that follows isn’t wind at all — it’s the slow rasp of metal breathing.