Crossroads

Dylan

I get to my patch nice and early. It’s barely gone eight and the sun is bruising across the sky still. From the crossroads at the top of town I can see the whole sorry mess splayed out below me, sparks of light flaring as people lose the game of chicken with the night. I strum a few chords as I wait, checking my phone impatiently every few minutes. The guitar’s not even in tune, but it doesn’t matter, that’ll come with time. When it’s my time.

It’s full dark now and I half-rise as a car crawls by, anonymous face peering out from the passenger window.  It’s a black Mercedes, which is what I picture him driving. But it carries on down the hill, trawling for something I’m not offering.

At ten past midnight I sling my guitar over my shoulder and start the slow walk back down through town. I pass the same familiar faces and we pass the same familiar conversation.

No luck, they ask.

Not tonight, I say. You?

Maybe tomorrow, they say.

Maybe tomorrow, I agree. And then we all stroll on home with our instruments and our souls.

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2 thoughts on “Crossroads

  1. Love the style of this, it really makes it come alive. For a story about waiting, then nothing happening, it’s quite tense and urgent. And the idea’s great – I’d love to read a whole book about this!

  2. These are great! I love the idea of a story told in so few words – It’s like an impressionist painting that doesn’t quite play its hand, but leaves you wanting more. Excellent stuff Jon.

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