The Treasure Chest of Archibald Grey

by A.R. Milton

Here is the story of Archibald Grey. A best-selling novelist known for inspiring spirits young and old around the world. His words have been the glue that bound generations together for decades. Some believed his pen was magical, maybe even divine, certainly otherworldly, based on how he could twist and turn a human soul with a comma.

Sadly, we begin this story at the end, but our friend Archi doesn’t know that yet. Going about his day with a smile after writing to the sunrise, it was time for him to head to his favorite barista for coffee. There, he’ll take the time to jot character notes down for his next story. Purpose was cultivated in routine and Archibald discovered joy was the catalyst between the two. Happiness itself radiated from his face whenever spotted in public. Leaving Social media trolls bewildered, pointing out ‘the man with everything can’t afford a reason to frown’.

Archibald, who lived on a hill above a small town, enjoyed his daily two-mile walks into the community. Spry legs carried him with seasoned vigor down the road. Even as he pushed closer to eighty-five years old by the second, his age never dictated his pace.

Generous with his words and his wealth, Archibald was beloved by the locals. Donating to various charities, funding the library down on Main St., and giving large tips while visiting small private owned businesses like his favorite coffee shop made him a local hero.

However, as stated earlier, this story is not like the others. We are rapidly approaching Archibald’s end. Here it comes now, in the shape of a red pickup truck! Roaring through a red light just as Archibald was crossing the intersection. Tossing him in the air like an egg getting flipped on a skillet only a few paces away from his daily Carmel Macchiato. He landed on his back and his chest popped open like a piñata. Dozens of people screamed and shouted. The driver of the truck got out of the car and cried in a raspy voice, “Is that Archibald Grey? Oh God, what did I do?!”

The wails from the crowd slowly subsided as they all took notice of the lack of organs and blood that should have been leaking from Archibald Grey. Instead, the cavity of his chest exposed treasures that were most valuable to him. Objects like the deed to his home, or the titles of his cars, family photos even poked through. People spotted old degrees and certifications from his humble beginnings as a District Attorney. Bank info sprinkled itself around the objects of interest like rubies in a pirate’s bounty. The bystanders formed a circle and drew near in amazement. Panic had been replaced with wonder.

Some of the folk murmured amongst themselves, “Is this one of his stories brought to life?”

While others agreed in silence- It’s just like his one story, Herbert the Talking Shoe.

But they all inched forward like passers-by’s at a garage sale and then began to rummage.

A man took the deed to the home. Hoping he could experience how the famous author lived. Once he moved into the home, however, there was a void- a gap of emptiness that Archibald’s furniture couldn’t fill without him there.

A woman collected the titles of the cars for her and her family. Archibald had that one grey van she really liked. She soon felt like a toddler riding in a seat too large for her, no matter how much she adjusted. No matter the vehicle.

Another man collected all the bank information scattered around. Archibald’s riches were on his mind and there was plenty of it. It took him no time to waste it, though. He had no purpose guiding his spending.

The rest of the spectators pillaged Archibald’s treasure chest for hours. Items clanked together and jingled. People left with their trinkets full of excitement, but the experiences attached were less than fulfilling.

As the carcass of Archibald Grey lied alone in the street near empty from its excavation, a crow swooped down and landed on the base of the chest. With keen like precision, its eye caught a small seed wedged against the lining of Archibald’s heart. This seed was small, as small as a mustard seed. This was a seed of faith. The seed of faith that fueled Archibald to accomplish all the great things he did. That was his battery. The same battery implanted in you and me.

So, seizing its prize, the crow scooped the seed in its beak and flew away, nourished by everlasting life.

THE END