I Gave Her My Glock | Flash Fiction

Eye illustration - "I Gave Her My Glock" flash fiction

It was a simple little wallet; plain black faux leather, worn and tatty. She saw it fall out of his coat pocket and land on the pavement as he walked down the street. He didn’t notice; his hands were full. She lurched after him, grabbed the wallet, and babbled at him until he turned around.

“Excuse me! Your wallet. You dropped… I’ve got… wallet… Excuse me!”

When he turned and looked at her, she lost her breath and flushed bright pink. She thrust the wallet at him. “You dropped it.”

His smile was lopsided and utterly endearing. She soaked it in, her face growing hotter and hotter as she observed his chiselled jawline, his silky dirty blonde hair and his dazzling purple eyes. Could eyes be purple? Was that natural? There was no doubt about it – his were. And they were gorgeous.

“Thanks,” he said. “God, if I’d have lost this, I don’t know what I’d do. Good of you to return it to me, so many people would have just taken off with it.”

“No, I’d never, I couldn’t, I…” she stopped herself. “No welcome. You’re problem.”

He laughed. “Hey, let me thank you for your good deed.”

She braced herself. Would he buy her a coffee? Take her to dinner? Invite her out for drinks?

“You want this glockenspiel?”

“Yes! Wait… what?” She eyed the instrument in his hands; she hadn’t noticed what it was until he mentioned it, too mesmerised was she by his pretty face. He was almost unearthly. Those purple eyes gave him an alien quality that confused and enticed her like no other eyes ever had.

“It’s kind of special, this glockenspiel. If you play it the right way, I’ll come to you in an instant.”

She raised her eyebrows, words completely beyond her. Was he crazy? Should she laugh at him or take him seriously? Should she make a run for it?

“Let me show you,” he said, as he set the glockenspiel on the ground and retrieved a mallet from his trouser pocket. He handed it to her and then wrapped his fingers around hers. Together they leant over the instrument and he guided her hand to play out a five-note tune. “You think you’ll remember that?”

She shivered as his breath tickled her neck. “I think so.”

“Good. If you ever need a favour – and I mean any favour – play the tune. I’ll hear it, no matter where I am, and I’ll come to you.”

And with that he was off, strutting down the street and away from her.

By the time she reached her car she couldn’t wipe the smile off her face. She was utterly smitten, wrapped up with thoughts of who he might be and whether he would really materialise if she tapped out the special tune. She knew it was crazy, but she couldn’t help but think he might. Those vivid purple eyes had a touch of magic about them; would it be so surprising if the glockenspiel turned out to be magical too?

And when she turned the key of her ignition and the engine refused to start, it began to feel like fate. She needed help. She needed him. She’d summon him, and he’d come to her.

She set the glockenspiel on her lap, retrieved the mallet from her handbag and played out the five-note jingle.


She tried again.


Once more for luck.


Was she doing it wrong? Had she remembered it incorrectly? Was she going to miss out on the chance of an incredible romance with the beautiful, magical musician, just because her stupid brain couldn’t recall the right tune? Or… or was it worse than that?


“So, I gave her my glock.”

“Is that a euphemism?”

“Ha! No. I gave her my old glockenspiel. I was on my way the charity shop with it, so it saved me a job when she accepted it as a gift. I told her it that if she played a special tune, I’d appear out of nowhere, like magic.”

“Seriously? She must be crazy.”

“Right? I can’t believe she fell for it! Shame really – she was cute. If she’d have realised I was talking shit and called me out on it I’d have taken her for a coffee and given her… something else, if you know what I mean.”

He retrieved his wallet from his pocket to pay for the next round of beers. “Wait… I had fifty quid in here. It’s all gone. Fuck!”


“That crazy bitch did rob me, after all.”

Merry Bloody Christmas: A Short Story Collection by Ellie ScottFollow Ellie Scott on WordPress.com

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