Downtown - Reminiscence

This is part four of my Downtown bit. This one was originally written in the first person, but didn't fit in as well with the other third person pieces.
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Another Jack and seven gets him one step closer to destitution as he sits there in the shadows that seek out guys like him. This smoke-filled, last-stop booze joint caught him in his tumble down through towns he doesn’t recall and women that never stuck. Days travelling from gig to gig, him and his guitar lookin’ for a good time and an audience, are fresh in his mind amid a haze of other things – the “good ol’ days”.

Round the bottom of Jack number four he gets to wondering what ever happened to that guitar.

The bartender looks his way and he knows he's been mumbling out loud. He throws back the last of his drink and makes his way home, stumbling out the door into tomorrow to go home and dream about yesterday.

Downtown - The Shop Keeper

This is the second story in my Downtown series.

The Shop Keeper

She arrived every Thursday at exactly eleven forty-five. He watched and waited until he could see her through the window, then busied himself behind the counter until he heard the door chime.

He greeted her as always with a shy smile and immediately got down to business, not knowing what else to say. They looked at her wares, fine handbags made with colourful fabrics, and discussed the quality of her work. He could see her in each one of her creations, in the materials she chose, in the perfect stitching.

She took her payment and lingered expectantly, until he said goodbye.

He kept his eyes on the door until she was out of sight, and began again to count the hours until next Thursday.

Downtown - The Reader

This is the first in a collection of short, short stories inspired by people I see downtown.

The Reader

He sits on that stone wall near the green downtown, oblivious to the rush of the city around him. Next to him, a stack of old books, dog eared and stained – volumes of poetry, adventure, philosophy and love – his wealth of knowledge. His dirty grey beard trembles as he mouths the words, passages he knows by heart. He licks his thumb and turns the page with great care, each page precious, each word a treasure. Every truth exists between the title and the end.

Exactly at five he takes his companions and places them in a tattered bag with the few other things he calls his own. Clutching his belongings to his chest, he makes his way down Water Street to a place with better light.