Jackie and the Magic Bricks
by Greg Michaelson
Genre: Fantasy/Sci-Fi
Swearwords: None.
Description: The tenants fear the ogre's whim/But Jackie's far too fly for him...
_____________________________________________________________________
Once upon a time there was a girl called Jackie, who lived in the caretaker’s bungalow in the shadow of the tower block on the edge of the estate. The tower block was almost empty now, except for the landlord who occupied the penthouse.
Jackie’s dad had spent so much time looking after Jackie’s mum that he’d lost his job. After Jackie’s mum died, he sat all day watching game shows on the 90” TV he’d bought with his redundancy money.
One morning, Jackie found that the fridge was empty. So she put on her bobble hat and went round to the supermarket, but her dad’s credit card was blocked and she had no money. When she got back home, her dad was still asleep, so she unplugged the TV and trundled it across the estate in her doll’s pram.
Just outside the pawn shop, a wizened old man in a dinner jacket rolled down the window of his bright red BMW.
“What do you want for the TV?” said the wizened old man.
“It cost twelve-hundred pounds,” said Jackie, warily. “And it’s only a couple of months old.”
“I can give you something better than money,” said the wizened old man, proffering her a carrier bag.
“Toy bricks?” said Jackie, peering into the bag. “Do you think I’m stupid?”
“These are magic bricks,” said the man, patiently. “They’ll change into whatever you build out of them. Have a look at the car.”
Jackie peered at the car. The body was made up of a myriad of small rectangular shapes, each surfaced with a regular pattern of even smaller studs.
“Whoa!” said Jackie. “You’re on!”
Jackie took the bricks and helped the man put the TV onto the car’s back seat.
Back at the bungalow, Jackie’s dad was pacing up and down the front garden, holding a letter from the landlord.
“We’ve got to leave,” said Jackie’s dad. “The bungalow came with the job.”
“Maybe you could ask for your job back,” said Jackie
“Not a chance,” said Jackie’s dad. “You know they’re going to demolish the tower block. Anyway, where’s my TV?”
“I swapped it!” said Jackie, showing her dad the bag. “Look! Magic bricks!”
“You wee daftie!” shouted Jackie’s dad. “You swapped my TV for bricks!”
He snatched the bag from Jackie and hurled it over the hedge where it burst, scattering bricks at the base of the tower block. Then he stomped across the garden into the bungalow.
“Well,” said Jackie, defiantly. “If you won’t go and talk to the landlord, I will.”
At the main entrance to the tower block, men in hard hats were carting crates of explosives into the lobby. One man was unwinding a long length of cable which he attached to a detonator.
“Get away!” he shouted at Jackie. “This is no place for kids! It’s not safe here!”
Jackie slowly walked right round the tower block. On the far side, she heard the landlord’s private helicopter taking off from the top of the tower. By the time she had returned to her starting point, the magic bricks had grown into a flight of steps that zigzagged up the side of the tower.
“Cool!” said Jackie, and mounted the staircase.
Jackie climbed steadily past tier after tier of gutted flats. When she reached the roof of the tower block, she crossed the helipad, let herself into the penthouse living room and looked around.
The living room was furnished in glass and chrome and hardwood and leather. On the walls hung huge framed photographs of the landlord and his celebrity friends, who were mostly international footballers. Sunk into the centre of the marble floor was an enormous whirl-pool Jacuzzi.
On top of the mahogany cocktail cabinet was a golden credit card reader. Just as Jackie was inspecting the card reader, she glanced movement behind her, reflected in its polished surface.
“Jackie!” said the cleaner, who lived in the tied bungalow next door. “What on earth are you doing here? You know he’ll have you for breakfast if he catches you!”
“I’ve come to ask for dad’s job back,” said Jackie.
“Not a hope!” said the cleaner. “I’ve lost my job and all.”
“It’s worth a try,” said Jackie.
Then she pointed at the golden card reader.
“Anyway,” said Jackie, “what’s this for?”
“It’s magic,” said the cleaner. “If you put in your card, it’ll transfer money into your account.”
“Cosmic!” said Jackie. “That’ll really help dad.”
She inserted her dad’s credit card into the slot and tapped in the PIN number. The card reader began to chatter.
Next to the golden credit card reader was a golden media player.
“So what’s this?” asked Jackie, picking up the media player.
“It’s magic,” said the cleaner. “You just think of a tune and it’ll play it for you.”
“Amazing!” said Jackie. “I really fancy one of those.”
Just as Jackie was putting the media player into her pocket, the helicopter landed on the roof.
“Quick,” said the cleaner, hustling Jackie over to the Jacuzzi. “Hide in here.”
Jackie grabbed her dad’s credit card, climbed down into the Jacuzzi and burrowed into a pile of dirty towels. The landlord came in from the helipad and glared at the cleaner.
“Who were you talking to?” said the landlord.
“No one,” said the cleaner, quickly. “There’s no one here.”
“There better not be!” said the landlord. “They’re about to blow up the building. You should get out of here. I’ll just check things over before the removal men arrive.”
As the landlord went through to the master bedroom, the cleaner grabbed the golden card reader and summoned the lift. Then she leant over the Jacuzzi and called softly:
“Come on Jackie! We’ve got to go!”
But as Jackie approached the lift, the golden media player started to loudly play “Jumping Jack Flash”.
The landlord stormed out of the master bedroom.
“FIFA! Foul fun!” chanted the landlord. “I smell the sweat of scrounger scum.”
The lift doors closed as Jackie dashed out onto the roof and ran down the brick staircase.
“You won’t get away that easily!” shouted the landlord, following after.
Jackie was small and lithe, and soon outpaced the lumbering landlord. But, on the very last step, she tripped on a loose brick and tumbled down onto the detonator. There was a muffled explosion, and the tower block shook and crumpled. Jackie was thrown clear but the landlord was engulfed in steel and concrete.
As the dust settled, Jackie’s dad and the cleaner forced their way past the demolition men and rushed across the fore-court towards the heap of rubble.
“Jackie! Jackie!” cried her dad. “Are you all right, hen?”
“I’m fine, dad!” called Jackie, scrabbling around in the masonry. “Come and help!”
“What are you up to?” asked the cleaner.
“Five, six, pick up bricks,” said Jackie, popping small studded blocks into her bobble hat.
The End
(for Callum and Archie)
Swearwords: None.
Description: The tenants fear the ogre's whim/But Jackie's far too fly for him...
_____________________________________________________________________
Once upon a time there was a girl called Jackie, who lived in the caretaker’s bungalow in the shadow of the tower block on the edge of the estate. The tower block was almost empty now, except for the landlord who occupied the penthouse.
Jackie’s dad had spent so much time looking after Jackie’s mum that he’d lost his job. After Jackie’s mum died, he sat all day watching game shows on the 90” TV he’d bought with his redundancy money.
One morning, Jackie found that the fridge was empty. So she put on her bobble hat and went round to the supermarket, but her dad’s credit card was blocked and she had no money. When she got back home, her dad was still asleep, so she unplugged the TV and trundled it across the estate in her doll’s pram.
Just outside the pawn shop, a wizened old man in a dinner jacket rolled down the window of his bright red BMW.
“What do you want for the TV?” said the wizened old man.
“It cost twelve-hundred pounds,” said Jackie, warily. “And it’s only a couple of months old.”
“I can give you something better than money,” said the wizened old man, proffering her a carrier bag.
“Toy bricks?” said Jackie, peering into the bag. “Do you think I’m stupid?”
“These are magic bricks,” said the man, patiently. “They’ll change into whatever you build out of them. Have a look at the car.”
Jackie peered at the car. The body was made up of a myriad of small rectangular shapes, each surfaced with a regular pattern of even smaller studs.
“Whoa!” said Jackie. “You’re on!”
Jackie took the bricks and helped the man put the TV onto the car’s back seat.
Back at the bungalow, Jackie’s dad was pacing up and down the front garden, holding a letter from the landlord.
“We’ve got to leave,” said Jackie’s dad. “The bungalow came with the job.”
“Maybe you could ask for your job back,” said Jackie
“Not a chance,” said Jackie’s dad. “You know they’re going to demolish the tower block. Anyway, where’s my TV?”
“I swapped it!” said Jackie, showing her dad the bag. “Look! Magic bricks!”
“You wee daftie!” shouted Jackie’s dad. “You swapped my TV for bricks!”
He snatched the bag from Jackie and hurled it over the hedge where it burst, scattering bricks at the base of the tower block. Then he stomped across the garden into the bungalow.
“Well,” said Jackie, defiantly. “If you won’t go and talk to the landlord, I will.”
At the main entrance to the tower block, men in hard hats were carting crates of explosives into the lobby. One man was unwinding a long length of cable which he attached to a detonator.
“Get away!” he shouted at Jackie. “This is no place for kids! It’s not safe here!”
Jackie slowly walked right round the tower block. On the far side, she heard the landlord’s private helicopter taking off from the top of the tower. By the time she had returned to her starting point, the magic bricks had grown into a flight of steps that zigzagged up the side of the tower.
“Cool!” said Jackie, and mounted the staircase.
Jackie climbed steadily past tier after tier of gutted flats. When she reached the roof of the tower block, she crossed the helipad, let herself into the penthouse living room and looked around.
The living room was furnished in glass and chrome and hardwood and leather. On the walls hung huge framed photographs of the landlord and his celebrity friends, who were mostly international footballers. Sunk into the centre of the marble floor was an enormous whirl-pool Jacuzzi.
On top of the mahogany cocktail cabinet was a golden credit card reader. Just as Jackie was inspecting the card reader, she glanced movement behind her, reflected in its polished surface.
“Jackie!” said the cleaner, who lived in the tied bungalow next door. “What on earth are you doing here? You know he’ll have you for breakfast if he catches you!”
“I’ve come to ask for dad’s job back,” said Jackie.
“Not a hope!” said the cleaner. “I’ve lost my job and all.”
“It’s worth a try,” said Jackie.
Then she pointed at the golden card reader.
“Anyway,” said Jackie, “what’s this for?”
“It’s magic,” said the cleaner. “If you put in your card, it’ll transfer money into your account.”
“Cosmic!” said Jackie. “That’ll really help dad.”
She inserted her dad’s credit card into the slot and tapped in the PIN number. The card reader began to chatter.
Next to the golden credit card reader was a golden media player.
“So what’s this?” asked Jackie, picking up the media player.
“It’s magic,” said the cleaner. “You just think of a tune and it’ll play it for you.”
“Amazing!” said Jackie. “I really fancy one of those.”
Just as Jackie was putting the media player into her pocket, the helicopter landed on the roof.
“Quick,” said the cleaner, hustling Jackie over to the Jacuzzi. “Hide in here.”
Jackie grabbed her dad’s credit card, climbed down into the Jacuzzi and burrowed into a pile of dirty towels. The landlord came in from the helipad and glared at the cleaner.
“Who were you talking to?” said the landlord.
“No one,” said the cleaner, quickly. “There’s no one here.”
“There better not be!” said the landlord. “They’re about to blow up the building. You should get out of here. I’ll just check things over before the removal men arrive.”
As the landlord went through to the master bedroom, the cleaner grabbed the golden card reader and summoned the lift. Then she leant over the Jacuzzi and called softly:
“Come on Jackie! We’ve got to go!”
But as Jackie approached the lift, the golden media player started to loudly play “Jumping Jack Flash”.
The landlord stormed out of the master bedroom.
“FIFA! Foul fun!” chanted the landlord. “I smell the sweat of scrounger scum.”
The lift doors closed as Jackie dashed out onto the roof and ran down the brick staircase.
“You won’t get away that easily!” shouted the landlord, following after.
Jackie was small and lithe, and soon outpaced the lumbering landlord. But, on the very last step, she tripped on a loose brick and tumbled down onto the detonator. There was a muffled explosion, and the tower block shook and crumpled. Jackie was thrown clear but the landlord was engulfed in steel and concrete.
As the dust settled, Jackie’s dad and the cleaner forced their way past the demolition men and rushed across the fore-court towards the heap of rubble.
“Jackie! Jackie!” cried her dad. “Are you all right, hen?”
“I’m fine, dad!” called Jackie, scrabbling around in the masonry. “Come and help!”
“What are you up to?” asked the cleaner.
“Five, six, pick up bricks,” said Jackie, popping small studded blocks into her bobble hat.
The End
(for Callum and Archie)
About the Author
Greg Michaelson has been publishing short stories since
2001. His first novel The Wave Singer
(Argyll, 2008) was shortlisted for a Scottish Arts Council/Scottish Mortgage
Trust First Book Award. His second novel Singing About The Dark Times was self-published in 2014. Greg, who lives
and works in Edinburgh, likes to write about how things aren't and how they
might be.