Billy’s father had been the star of the convention circuit. You wanted a trick, then Frank Wizzleton had it in stock. Their stall always drew the biggest crowd; however, even Billy’s father knew why they were really there. Sure he’d sell enough to keep him and his sister in good quality second-hand clothes, but it was the pyramid they’d come to see.
It had now been over a week since Frank Wizzleton’s last public performance, at Greendale Cemetery. In one hand Billy held a malt, in the other the secret he’d waited his life for.
“….I have no idea how it works, son. It just does” began the letter. “All I can say is you need to keep doing the trick. At least once every 20 days, and NO MORE than three times a month. For the sake of everyone you love don’t ask any questions; don’t look for answers…”
Superstitious old fool, thought Billy, as he placed the letter back into its envelope. On the coffee table the pyramid began to glow, its top slowly turning. Billy swallowed hard on his whisky.
These words form my entry into this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction challenge.