I was due to meet my husband in our local café before work. That morning, I decided to arrive early, to have some thinking time for myself. I had so much going on in my head and needed that half-hour to get sorted, make sense of the situation. I looked down and realized that I had put on mismatching heels, and a ladder in my tights exposed my unshaven leg.
I took a seat next to the large bay window, which looks out onto the cobbled high street. The smell of a cooked English, mixed with the coffee breath of the waiter awoke my senses instantaneously. The disturbing view of the recent closed-down library, with its bolted windows and locked metal shutter door, was emotional. The century old building shared the same pain and destitute as the homeless man on the corner of Warwick Avenue. The town hall clock has been stuck at the nine o’ clock position for over a month. The town was bleeding poverty, the cries of pain being drowned out by the whistling of the angry kettle.
I ordered black coffee and my usual two slices of thick brown toasts with butter. The daily rag with its bullshit, not even good enough to wrap up the overcooked chips. The tea-stained collar on the waiter blended in with the stickiness of the grease-lit ceiling. The walls appeared to be closing in; the fearful eyes all around searching for an exit of hope. Leftover beans and pig fat are left abandoned on the table, the loneliness of the crumbs hiding the evidence of guilt.
About the Author
WARREN JONES studies creative writing at the University of Bolton. He is a published poet and scriptwriter, and has been published in various magazines. He is hoping to extend his portfolio by writing short fiction.
"When I write in all genres I try to get a sense of real life. This shines through in my work, with a powerful message being present."