My Writing Life

The Seasonal Librarian Inside, dark doesn’t come close. I edge forward, fuse-gone-on-the-stairs slow; looming shadows lead me to the desk. Single bulb, I see him now - as ancient as the place itself. I sneeze; not cleaned for years. No money, he explains, wrinkled hands like over-ripe apple hold the pen on the blotting pad. Face kind, but defeated. Its why he’s here. He tells his story - used to work deliveries, seasonal, night-time, appreciative clients. Times have changed, its online and mechanised. No-one remembers him, no-one wants him.  This place offered welcome solitude, but it’s dying too, its all digitised. That’s progress. Poor career advice, he jokes. He waves an invitational arm, I explore the shadows. I choose, and place it on the desk. Dust dances again, I sneeze. Can’t return it for a while, I explain, home now - its Christmas.  Apple hands squeeze mine around the book – keep it. No-one checks them now. My face brightens, his briefly flick...